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1 


FRANCIS  TREVELYAN    MILLER 
Author  of      Hero  Tales" 


HERO  TALES 

FROM  AMERICAN  LIFE 


BY 

FRANCIS   TREVELYAN  MILLER 

Literary  Editor  of  The  Search-Light  Library,   Founder  of  the 
Journal  of  American  History,  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE   CHRISTIAN    HERALD 

LOUIS  KLOPSCH,  Proprietor 
BIBLE  HOUSE 

V   in  .;  w 


V) .  S'^  • 


9 


r^R.  MCLER  AND  THE  SEARCH-LIGHT  INFOR' 
^  MATION  LIBRARY,  IN  MAKING  RESEARCH 
AND  IN  THE  PREPARATION  OF  THESE  TALES, 
ACKNOWLEDGE  THE  VALUABLE  ASSISTANCE 
RENDERED  BY  THE   FOLLOWING  WRITERS: 

WALTER  R.  BICKFORD,  KATE  UPSON  CLARK, 
CLARA  BICKFORD  MILLER,  ARTHUR  FORREST 
BURNS,  DAVID  STONE  KELSEY,  ELMER  MUNSON 
HUNT,  MINERVA  SPENCER  HANDY,  HARRY 
CHASE  BREARLEY,  JOHN  MILTON  SCOTT,  DAN- 
IEL Gibbons,  Elizabeth  b.  grimball,  samuel 

EMERY,  J.  L.  COTTELL,  ELIZABETH  A.  SEMPLE, 
LINA  DeLAND   BREARI.E/. 


••;r*^; 


(!l0pgrtgl)t.  1303, 


FOREWORD 


THIS  Book  of  a  Hundred  Hero  Tales  is  drawn 
from  the  thousands  of  incidents  of  courage 
and  bravery  with  which  American  History  is 
inspired — tales  that  are  close  to  the  human 
heart  and  which  bring  with  them  the  glow  of  manhood 
and  womanhood.  Not  alone  the  heroism  in  great 
crises,  but  the  tragic  tests  of  courage  in  the  average 
man  and  woman — the  heroism  of  everyday  life. 

Everyone  has  the  opportunity  to  become  a  hero. 
It  may  not  be  in  war  nor  in  the  presence  of  great  physi- 
cal danger.  It  may  be  in  the  sense  of  duty,  in  moral 
character,  in  honesty,  in  trade,  and  at  work.  It  may 
be  in  the  burdens  and  the  responsibilities  in  the  home, 
or  in  the  little  self-sacrifices  that  one  meets  every  hour. 
It  may  be  in  overcoming  habit,  or  in  conquering  anger 
by  self-control.  It  may  be  in  self-reliance,  in  obedi- 
ence, in  kindness,  justice,  truthfulness,  usefulness, 
courtesy,  purity,  ambition,  perseverance. 

There  are  a  thousand  tests  of  courage  that  come  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child,  every  day  of  life.  It  is 
of  these  that  great  heroism  springs  when  life  itself  is  in 
danger.  It  is  the  men  and  women,  who  through  child- 
hood and  youth  have  learned  the  heroism  in  little 
things,  that  respond  to  their  country's  call  or  rise  to 
Heroism  in  Great  Things. 

It  is  not  the  intent  of  this  book  to  record  history  or 
biography,  but  to  tell  true  storied  that  grip  the  heart — 
stories  of  real  Americans  who  have  lived,  and  many  of 


FOREWORD 


them  died,'' under  the  American  flag — the  ensign  of 
Liberty  that  makes  heroes.  There  lias  been  no  desire 
to  select  or  nominate  the  hundred  most  heroic  char- 
acters in  American  history,  but  rather  to  relate  a 
hundred  thrilling  incidents  from  American  life,  past 
and  present,  that  make  one  proud  to  be  an  American. 
It  is  a  Story-teller's  Club — a  gathering  around  the 
family  table  after  the  day's  work  is  done. 

In  selecting  the  Hero  Tales  for  this  volume,  Dr. 
Miller  gathered  about  him  a  circle  of  friends,  under 
the  Editorial  Staff  of  The  Search-Light  Library,  and 
asked  each  one  to  relate  the  most  heroic  story  in  his  or 
her  memory,  either  connected  with  some  occasion  in 
American  History  or  some  incident  in  modern  Ameri- 
can life.  Then  the  story-telling  began.  There  were 
tales  of  war,  sea  tales,  Indian  tales,  colonial  tales, 
frontier  tales;  tales  of  the  days  when  America  was 
struggling  for  her  independence,  of  the  wars  with 
England,  and  with  the  Mexicans ;  tales  of  the  sad  days 
when  the  American  brotherhood  was  rent  by  Civil  War ; 
tales  of  the  days  when  America  rose  as  a  world  power 
and  drove  Spain  from  the  Western  Continent ;  tales  of 
modern  invention,  of  heroic  fidelity  to  duty  in  modern 
life ;  tales  of  the  home,  of  the  fortitude  of  women,  of  the 
love  of  children. 

These  are  the  tales  that  form  the  basis  of  this  vol- 
ume— told  with  all  the  mannerism  and  carelessness  of 
the  entertaining  story-teller,  without  disturbing  their 
romance  with  historical  import  or  chronological  order. 
It'is  this  delightful  informality,  and  simple  recital — 
carrying  one  far  back  into  the  centuries,  then  into  the 
life  of  to-day,  only  to  be  carried  once  more  into  the 
past — that  gives  them  the  charm  of  the  story-teller,  and 
brings  them  to  the  memory  with  intense  human  interest 
and  thrilling  impulse. 


FOREWORD 


To  sit  at  your  fireside  with  such  a  goodly  company 
of  brave  hearts  is  a  privilege  that  probably  never  be- 
fore has  come  to  you.  Directly  before  you,  are  men 
who  imperiled  their  lives  for  their  country.  Here  are 
women  who  withstood  the  bitterest  agonies  for  the  sake 
of  their  beloved  ones.  Here  is  a  child  who  fled  into  the 
arms  of  death  to  save  those  who  were  in  danger.  There 
is  the  soldier  who  led  an  army  to  victory.  Here  is  a 
captain  who  brought  a  thousand  lives  safely  to  port. 

You  have,  undoubtedly,  often  wished  that  you  might 
see  the  conquering  hero  return  from  war,  or  clasp  the 
hands  of  the  world's  bravest  men.  Here  they  are  with 
you:  Dewey,  the  hero  of  Manila;  Custer,  the  hero  of 
the  Indian  massacres;  Houston,  the  frontiersman; 
Nathan  Hale,  the  patriot.  Some  of  them  have  been 
very  near  to  you:  Binns,  the  hero  of  the  Republic  dis- 
aster, the  first  man  to  save  his  ship  through  the  modern 
science  of  wireless  telegraphy;  Lieutenant  Self  ridge, 
who  gave  his  life  to  the  solution  of  aerial  navigation 
while  in  the  service  of  his  country;  heroes  of  the  long 
ago;  heroes  of  yesterday;  heroes  of  to-day — in  the 
company  of  the  heroes  of  to-morrow. 

Draw  your  chair  closer  and  sit  in  this  companion- 
ship of  a  Hundred  Heroes.  Listen  to  their  tales  of 
daring.  Look  into  their  faces  as  you  hear  their  stories 
of  self-sacrifice.  Go  with  them  onto  the  battlefield. 
Follow  them  to  the  cannon's  mouth.  Stand  with  them 
on  the  sinking  ship.  Sleep  with  them  in  the  wilder- 
ness. Suffer  with  them  on  the  trails  of  the  Frozen 
North.  Die  with  them,  if  need  be,  for  the  sake  of  a 
principle. 

Then  tell  me  would  you  make  a  hero? 


IX 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Man  With  a  Heart  Big  Enough  to  Hold  the  World  1 

The  Statesman  Who  Gave  His  Life  to  a  Principle      .     .  11 

The  American  Flag  in  the  Snows  of  Canada     ....  17 

The  Indian  Slave  Girl  Who  Unlocked  the  Northwest    .  22 

The  Rough  Riders  Who  Carried  the  Flag  to  Victory      .  27 

The  First  American  Fleet  to  Challenge  the  Seas     .     .  33 

The  Physician  Who  Added  Three  Stars  to  the  Flag      .  37 

The  Victor  in  the  World's  Deepest  Tragedy    ....  43 

The  Naval  Youth  Who  Destroyed  an  Ironclad     ...  49 

The  Mother's  Love  For  the  Sake  of  Her  Children     .     .  54 

The  Grim  Fighter  and  the  Thirty-eighth  Psalm     .      .  61 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys  Who  Overpowered  a  Fort      .  65 

The  Virginian  Who  Heard  the  Call  of  His  Home-Land  68 

The  Priest  and  Cross  That  Saved  Half  a  Continent     .  75 

The  Valiant  Cavalier  Who  Would  Not  Surrender     .     .  81 

The  Widowed  Mother  Who  Gave  Seven  Sons  to  Liberty  85 

The  Brotherly  Love  That  Founded  a  Powerful  State  89 

The  Schoolmaster  Who  Died  For  His  Country     ...  93 

The  Cavalryman  Who  Turned  Defeat  Into  Victory      .  97 

The  Explorer  Who   Found  a   Dark  Continent     .      ,     ,  100 

The  Admiral  Who  Unfurled  the  Flag  in  the  Orient     .  105 

The  Scientist  Who  Appealed  to  a  Heedless  World       .  110 

The  Cabin  Boy  Who  Became  the  First  Admiral     .     .     .  113 

The  Tory  Father  Who  Believed  Liberty  Was  a  Dream  118 

The  Rear-Admiral  of  the  Greatest  Fleet  on  the  Seas  123 

The   Castaways  in  the   Storm  Off  Cape  Henlopen      .  129 

The  Troopers  Who  Plunged  to  the  Valley  of  Death     .  133 

The  Homeless  Girl  Who  Fought  in  the  Revolution    .     .  138 

The  Ruined  City  That  Rose  Triumphant  From  Its  Ashes  145 

The  Southerner  Who  Loved  Two  Flags 149 

The  Girl  Cannoneer  Who  Won  a  Sergeant's  Honors     .  153 


CONTENTS 


The  Airship  That  Fell  From  the  Clouds  .... 
The  Watauga  Boys  in  the  Charge  op  King's  Mountain 
The  Engineers  Who  Fathomed  the  Black  Canyon     . 

The  Lost  Ship  and  the  Lost  Crew 

The  Little  Kansan  Who  Conquered  a  Savage  Race  . 
The  Immigrant  Girl  in  the  Harbor  of  a  New  World 
The  Privateer  That  Fought  Four  Ships  of  War  .  . 
The  Midnight  Raiders  Who  Rode  Through  Lines  of  Death 
The  Coppersmith  Who  Aroused  His  People  .  .  . 
The  Telephone  Girl  Who  Warned  the  Valley  .  . 
The  Orphan  Boy  Who  Rose  to  Lead  His  Countrymen 
The  Battleships  That  Vanquished  a  Proud  Monarchy 
The  Gallant  Horseman  Who  Subdued  the  Cruel  Apache 
The  Life-Savers  Who  Risk  Their  Lives  For  Duty  . 
The  Diplomat  Who  Did  not  Forget  the  Debt 
The  Martyred  Seamen  Who  Broke  the  Bonds  of  Tyranny 
The  Lighthouse  Woman  on  the  Cliffs  of  Lime  Rock 
The  College  Student  on  the  Great  Lakes 
The  Little  General  Who  Won  the  Love  of  His  Army 
The  Commander  Who  Saved  the  Great  Lakes  . 
The  Dying  Warrior  Who  Stormed  a  Citadel  . 
The  Saintly  Friend  Who  Loved  Humanity 
The  Conqueror  Who  Carried  the  Flag  Into  Mexico  . 
The  Mechanic  Who  Forced  the  World  to  Take  Heed 
The  Major-General  Who  Fought  as  a  Common  Soldier 
A  Woman's  Compassion  in  the  World  of  Darkness  . 
The  Wounded  Captain  Who  Would  Not  Give  Up  His  Ship 
The  Woodsman  Who  Saved  a  Great  Seaport  . 
The  Ploughman  Who  Heard  the  Alarm  of  His  Country 
Man's  Ambition  and  the  Lure  of  the  Labrador  . 
The  Philanthropist  Who  Gave  His  Life  .... 
The  American  Woman  Who  Appealed  to  Womanhood 
The  "War  Child"  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  . 
The  Wireless  Operator  Who  Saved  a  Thousand  Lives 
The  Indian  Princess  Who  Loved  the  White  Race  , 
The  Shipwreck  Off  the  Coast  of  New  England 
The  Gallows  and  the  Father  of  Twenty  Children 
The  Tennessee  Girl  Who  Guided  a  Cavalry    .     .     . 

xii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Submarine  on  the  Bottom  of  the  Sea     ....  317 

The  Sea  Fighter  Who  Challenged  the  World     .     .     .  321 

The  Mill  Boy  of  the  Slashes  Who  Became  a  Statesman  326 

The  Frontiersman  in  the  Great  Southwest     ....  330 

The  Girl  Pilot  on  the  Mississippi  River 334 

The  Bayonet  Brigade  That  Charged  a  Fort  in  the  Night  337 

The  Poor  Inventor  Who  Made  the  World  Rich    .     .     .  339 

The  Trapper  in  the  Wilds  of  the  Rocky  Mountains      .  344 

A  Thousand  Horsemen  That  Encircled  a  Sleeping  Army  348 

The  Child  Bride  of  Delaware  Bay 353 

The  Farmer  Boy  Who  Rose  to  Lead  a  Great  Army     .     .  357 

The   Heiress  of  Old  Kingwood   Mansion 361 

The  Mission  Church  in  the  Struggle  For  Freedom      .  365 

The  Young  Lieutenant  in  the  Harbor  of  Tripoli      .     .  369 

The  Schoolgirl  Who  Saved  Fort  Henry 373 

The  Wrecking  Tug  at  the  Statue  of  Liberty      .     .     .  877 

The  Soldier's  Wife  in  the   Santee   Swamp     ....  381 

The  Surveyor  Who  Saved  the  Middle  West      ....  385 

The  Flood  That  Raced  With  the  Horseman  of  Conemaugh  390 

The  Scout's  Sister  Who  Was  Held  Captive      ....  394 

The  Firemen  Who  Save  Great  Cities 401 

The  Nurse  Who  Became  the  "Angel  of  the  Battlefield"  405 

The  Fugitive  Boy  in  the  American  Wilderness      .     .     .  409 

The  Quakeress  Whose  Lips  Always  Spoke  the  Truth  417 

The  Naval  Officer  Who  Blew  Up  His  Ship      ....  421 

The  Woman  "Heretic"  Who  Died  For  Her  Conscience  426 

The  Bridge  Builder  Who  United  Two  Great  Cities      .  430 

The  Pilgrim  Soldier  Who  Challenged  Barbarism  ...  434 

The  Sergeant  Who  Rescued  the  Fallen  Flag      ...  438 

The  Pathfinder  Who  Saved  a  Promised  Land      .     .     .  442 
The    Southern    Planter   Who    Became    Father   of    His 

Country ^'^^ 


XIU 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

Francis  Trevelyan  Miller,  page 

Author  of  "Hero  Tales"    .      .  Frontispiece 

Death  op  Montgomery  at  Quebec 17 

The  Conflict  Between  the  Serapis  and  the  Bonhomme 

Richard 32 

Destruction  of  the  Albemarle        .     , 49 

Capture  of  Fort  Ticonderoga 64 

Lieutenant-Colonel  Forrest  Leading  His  Command  From 

Fort  Donelson 81 

Ride  of  the  Horseman  Who  Turned  Defeat  Into  Victory  96 

Admiral    Farragut   at   Mobile    Bay 113 

Life-Saving  Crew  to  the  Rescue  of  the  Imperiled  at  Sea  128 

Burning  of  San  Francisco 145 

Ruined  City  That  Rose  From  Its  Ashes 145 

The  Wright  Aeroplane  in  Conquest  of  the  Air     .     .     .  160 

Death  of   Lieutenant   Selfridge 160 

Gunnison   Canyon,  Where  the  Engineers  Began  Their 

Perilous  Journey 193 

Life-Raft  in  Gunnison   Tunnel 193 

Cavern   Where   Engineers   Were   Imprisoned     ....  193 

General    Lawton    in    the    Philippines 208 

Army   of   Aguinaldo    in   the    Philippines 208 

Flight  of  General  Israel  Putnam 273 

Susan  B.  Anthony,  Who  Gave  Her  Life  to  Emancipate 

Womanhood 288 

Surrender  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown 445 


XV 


HERO  TALES 


iCtfi?  ar?  Bam  wttlj  Olourag^nua  ilf^arta 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  MAN  WITH  A  HEART 
BIG  ENOUGH  TO  HOLD  THE  WORLD 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  log  cabin 
that  made  a  man  such  as  the  world  had  never  known;  a 
man  who  rose  from  the  forests  to  a  palace  within  the  hearts  of 
a  great  people.    It  is  a  tale  that  makes  one  feel  that  there  are  greater 
riches  than  money,  and  that  toil  has  its  victories  more  glorious  than  war. 

IT  WAS  in  the  days  when  Kentucky  was  a  dense 
wilderness.  The  growl  of  the  bear  came  from 
the  hills,  and  the  deer  darted  from  the  trails. 
Only  here  and  there  amid  the  forests  were  a  few 
rough  log-cabins. 

The  year  was  1809 ;  the  day  the  twelfth  of  February. 
The  smoke  curled  from  the  huge  stone  chimney.  A 
woodsman  stood  in  the  door  of  a  cabin.  The  morning 
was  cold  and  frosty.  He  pulled  his  fur  cap,  made  from 
the  skins  he  had  trapped,  far  down  over  his  face  as  he 
started  out  along  the  trail.  In  about  half  an  hour,  he 
stood  at  the  door  of  a  neighboring  cabin,  two  miles 
away,  and  pushing  it  open,  drawled : 

*' Nancy's  got  a  boy-baby." 

The  years  passed ;  and  soon  that  boy-baby  was  fish- 
ing in  the  creek,  setting  traps  for  rabbits  and  muskrats, 
and  going  on  coon-hunts.  One  day  a  brace  of  par- 
tridges flew  over  his  head,  and  across  a  stream  over 
which  led  a  foot-log.  The  little  lad  scrambled  on  to  the 
log  and  was  half-way  across,  when  splash!  he  fell  off 
into  the  creek.    The  water  was  about  eight  feet  deep, 


HERO  TALES 


and  he  could  not  swim.  A  boy  comrade  saw  him  sink 
to  the  bottom  and  shrieked  in  terror.  Then,  grabbing 
a  stick,  he  thrust  it  into  the  water.  As  the  drowning 
lad  came  to  the  surface,  he  clutched  at  the  stick  with 
both  hands  and  clung  to  it.  The  comrade  on  the  bank 
tugged  with  all  the  might  in  his  small  body  and  was 
almost  pulled  into  the  creek,  when,  with  a  desperate 
pull,  the  half-drowned  lad  was  dragged  on  to  the  bank. 
His  body  was  limp.  The  little  comrade  shook  him 
violently  and  rolled  him  on  the  ground.  The  water 
poured  from  his  mouth.  Soon  he  began  to  choke  and 
open  his  eyes,  and,  after  his  clothes  were  dried  in  the 
sun,  he  went  home  whistling. 

The  little  lad  was  now  seven  years  of  age.  His 
father  loaded  him  on  to  a  horse,  with  his  sister  and 
mother,  and  they  moved  to  Indiana.  There  was  no 
road,  and  during  part  of  the  way  not  even  a  foot-trail. 
The  passage  had  to  be  cut  with  an  ax.  In  the  heart  of 
the  forest,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pigeon  Creek,  a  camp 
was  thrown  up  of  rough,  unhewn  logs.  This  was  their 
new  home,  and  it  had  neither  windows  nor  floors.  The 
little  lad  slept  on  a  heap  of  dry  leaves  in  the  corner  of 
the  loft,  which  he  reached  by  climbing  wooden  pegs 
driven  in  the  wall,  and  at  times  potatoes  were  the  only 
food  on  the  table. 

In  his  tenth  year  came  his  first  great  sadness.  His 
mother  lay  sick.  There  was  no  physician  within  thirty- 
five  miles.  She  called  her  children  to  her  bedside. 
Placing  her  feeble  hands  on  the  little  lad's  head,  she 
whispered:    ''Be  good  to  one  another.     Be  kind." 

The  poor  mother  was  taken  from  the  lowly  cabin 
and  buried  under  the  trees,  and  the  little  fellow's  heart 
was  almost  broken  with  grief. 

The  years  in  the  wilderness  passed  with  long  days 
of  labor,  with  the  ax  in  the  forest  and  the  life  of  the 


THE  LOG-CABIN 


woodsman,  and  soon  the  lad  was  nineteen  years  of  age 
— a  lank,  rugged,  swarthy  youth,  standing  six  feet  four 
inches,  and  strong  as  a  giant.  In  all  his  life  he  had  not 
had  more  than  a  year's  schooling,  but  he  borrowed 
every  book  within  fifty  miles  of  his  home  and  devoured 
its  learning  like  a  hungry  child. 

It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  for  a  father  to  bind 
out  his  son  to  a  farmer  or  tradesman.  So  it  was  that 
this  youth  was  bound  out  at  twenty-five  cents  a  day. 
He  was  hostler,  ploughman  and  ferryman ;  he  worked 
for  a  tavern-keeper  and  a  butcher ;  but  his  wages  went 
to  his  father  to  whom  he  owed  all  his  time  until  noon 
of  his  twenty-first  birthday.  He  knew  nothing  about 
money,  and  when  he  received  his  first  dollar  for  carry- 
ing some  strangers  across  the  river,  it  was  the  greatest 
riches  that  he  ever  expected  to  see. 

"He  would  walk  farther  and  work  harder  to  get  an 
old  book,"  said  one  of  the  neighbors,  "than  any  one  else 
around  him  would  walk  or  work  to  get  a  new  dollar 
bill." 

One  newspaper  came  to  the  neighboring  village. 
The  youth  would  sit  in  the  village  store  and  read  aloud 
to  the  villagers  the  news  from  the  great  world  and  the 
debates  in  Congress. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1830  that  an  ox-team  rattled 
along  the  forests  from  Indiana  to  Illinois.  Its  wagon- 
wheels  were  round  blocks  of  wood  cut  from  the  trunk 
of  an  oak  tree  with  a  hole  in  the  center  for  an  axle. 
There  were  no  roads  nor  bridges.  The  driver  of  the 
ox-team  was  the  gaunt,  sad-faced  youth,  his  coat  ragged, 
his  hat  battered,  and  his  trousers  of  torn  and  patched 
homespun.  He  was  now  twenty-two  years  old.  His 
family  were  safe  in  Illinois.  He  helped  build  the  new 
home,  clear  the  fence  for  the  new  farm,  and  plant  and 
harvest  the  first  crop. 


HERO  TALES 


''Father,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  am  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  myself  in  the  world." 

''Go  on,  boy,"  said  the  father,  "let's  see  what  you 
can  do  for  yourself." 

The  years  that  now  passed  were  much  like  thosq 
that  come  to  every  American  youth.  There  was  the 
fight  with  poverty;  the  struggle  to  gain  the  first  foot- 
hold; the  mighty  battle  between  the  right  and  wrong; 
the  decision  between  honesty  and  dishonesty;  the  con- 
quest of  self — the  battles  that  every  American  youth 
must  fight  to  gain  the  heights  of  either  manhood  or 
womanhood. 

In  the  midst  of  these  years,  the  American  people 
were  burdened  with  a  heavy  problem.  The  custom  of 
black  slavery,  that  had  existed  since  the  first  settlement 
of  America,  was  falling  into  ill  repute.  Slowly  it  had 
been  driven  out  of  the  North  into  the  South,  where 
cotton-fields  and  climate  made  it  more  profitable,  and 
now  a  strong  moral  sentiment  had  been  created  against 
it.     The  country  was  aroused. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  1858.  A  great  throng  had  gath- 
ered in  a  little  village  in  Illinois.  Country  folk  had 
come  the  night  before  in  wagons,  on  horseback  and 
afoot,  and  their  log-fires  lit  up  the  prairie  as  if  it  were 
an  army  in  camp.  Trains  were  bringing  the  crowds 
from  Chicago  and  from  the  large  eastern  cities,  as  far 
as  New  York.  The  great  problem  of  negro  slavery  was 
to  be  fought  out  in  debate.  The  conflict  was  in  the  open 
air,  the  vast  throng  waiting  in  expectation.  Before  the 
crowd,  on  a  raised  platform,  stood  a  little  man,  hardly 
five  feet  four  inches  tall,  but  with  broad  shoulders,  a 
massive  head,  and  a  voice  that  deepened  into  a  roar. 

"I  don't  care  whether  slavery  is  to  be  voted  up  or 
voted  down,"  shouted  the  little  man,  "I  don't  believe 
the  negro  is  any  kin  of  mine." 


THE  LOG-CABIN 


His  voice  rang  with  denunciation  of  the  attitude  of 
the  abolitionist.  Half  the  crowd  cheered  wildly  as  he 
sat  down  after  one  of  the  greatest  speeches  ever  deliv- 
ered in  the  defense  of  slavery  and  state-rights. 

A  tall,  lank  man  arose,  and  came  to  the  front  of  the 
platform.  He  was  six  feet  four  inches  tall,  his  shoul- 
ders stooped,  his  clothing  hung  loosely  on  his  awkward 
frame,  and  a  long  bony  finger  pointed  at  the  crowd. 

''Is  slavery  wrong?"  he  said,  speaking  solemnly. 
' '  That  is  the  real  issue  that  will  continue  in  this  country 
when  these  poor  tongues  shall  be  silent.  It  is  the 
eternal  struggle  between  these  two  principles — right 
and  wrong — throughout  the  world.  Slavery  is  wrong, 
and  should  be  abolished.  To  this  cause  I  pledge  myself 
until  the  sun  shall  shine,  the  rain  shall  fall,  and  the  wind 
shall  blow  upon  no  man  who  goes  forth  to  unrequited 
toil." 

A  roar  of  applause  greeted  the  plain,  vigorous 
words.  The  country  was  thrilled  by  the  shafts  of 
oratory.  A  new  leader  had  come  to  carry  the  banner 
of  freedom.  As  the  months  passed,  the  agitation 
reached  fever-heat.  Then  a  great  campaign  came — 
and  at  its  close,  the  long,  lank  man  of  six  feet  four  was 
raised  to  the  leadership  of  the  American  people  and 
elected  to  the  Presidency — the  "boy-baby"  from  the 
Kentucky  cabin,  the  ungainly  youth  of  the  wilderness, 
the  son  of  poverty  who  had  left  his  home  but  a  few 
years  before  to  ''make  his  own  living,"  was  now 
President  of  the  United  States  of  America,  the  greatest 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

It  was  the  eleventh  of  February,  in  1861.  He  stood 
on  the  rear  platform  of  the  train  that  was  to  bear  him 
from  the  little  Illinois  town  in  which  for  some  years  he 
had  lived  and  practiced  law,  to  the  nation's  capital  at 
Washington.     The  neighbors  gathered  about  his  car 


HERO  TALES 


to  bid  him  farewell.  The  morning  was  chill  and  dreary, 
but  they  bared  their  heads  in  the  falling  snowflakes. 
He  gazed  at  them  for  a  moment.  Then  he  removed  his 
hat,  and  raised  his  hand  for  silence.  His  lips  quivered 
and  there  was  a  tear  on  his  cheek.  His  face  was  thin 
and  sad. 

''My  friends,"  he  said,  the  words  choked  with 
emotion,  "no  one  not  in  my  situation,  can  appreciate 
my  feelings  of  sadness  at  this  parting.  To  this  place, 
and  the  kindness  of  these  people,  I  owe  everything. 
Here  have  I  lived  a  quarter  of  a  .century,  and  have 
passed  from  a  young  man  to  an  old  man.  Here  my 
children  have  been  born,  and  one  is  buried.  I  now 
leave,  not  knowing  when  or  whether  I  may  ever  return, 
with  a  task  before  me  greater  than  that  which  rested 
upon  Washington.  Without  the  assistance  of  that 
Divine  Being  who  ever  attended  him,  I  cannot  succeed. 
With  that  assistance,  T  cannot  fail.  Trusting  in  Him, 
who  can  go  with  me,  and  remain  with  you,  and  be  every- 
where for  good,  let  us  confidently  hope  that  all  will  yet 
be  well.  To  his  care  commending  you,  as  I  hope  in 
your  prayers  you  will  commend  me,  I  bid  you  an  affec- 
tionate farewell." 

It  was  under  an  angry  sky  and  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  the  tall,  lank  man  of  the  wilderness  entered  the 
White  House.  It  was  in  the  nation's  hour  of  trial. 
The  clouds  of  war  had  begun  to  gather,  and,  with  the 
showers  of  April,  broke  in  fury  over  the  nation,  threat- 
ening the  destruction  of  the  great  republic  of  the 
western  world. 

''They  have  fired  on  Fort  Sumter!" 

The  words  rang  across  the  continent.  Tlie  echo 
was  heard  around  the  world.  The  most  heartrending 
struggle  that  ever  engaged  men  of  the  same  blood  was 
now  on;  brother  fighting  brother;  father  fighting  son; 

—6— 


THE  LOG-CABIN 


mothers  praying  for  their  boys — one  in  the  uniform  of 
the  blue  and  the  other  wearing  the  gray;  churches  of 
the  same  faith  appealing  to  God,  each  for  the  other's 
overthrow.  Men  speaking  the  same  language  and  liv- 
ing for  eighty-four  years  under  the  same  flag  now  stood 
as  deadly  foes.  America,  a  peace-loving  nation,  now 
aroused,  became  the  greatest  fighting  force  on  the  face 
of  the  globe. 

''Capture  the  national  capital!  Burn  the  city! 
Seize  the  President !"  These  were  the  wild  words  that 
lay  on  the  lips  of  sons  of  the  founders  of  the  republic, 
whose  fathers  had  fought  for  American  independence. 

The  awful  hours  in  the  White  House  can  never  be 
known.  The  tender  heart  of  the  tall,  lank  man  upon 
whose  shoulders  had  fallen  the  duty  of  fulfilling  a 
nation's  destiny,  overflowed  with  love  for  all  humanity 
and  bled  with  anguish  at  the  bloodshed  of  his  people. 

The  battle-line  crossed,  as  it  were,  the  threshold  of 
the  White  House,  for  the  President  was  a  Kentuckian 
by  birth  and  many  of  his  dearest  friends  were  fighting 
under  the  flag  of  the  Confederacy.  As  duty  called  his 
wife  to  lead  a  ball  in  honor  of  the  Federal  victory  at 
Shiloh,  one  of  her  brothers,  the  darling  of  her  heart, 
lay  dead  on  that  battlefield  in  the  uniform  of  the  gray, 
and  another  brother  was  dying  at  Vicksburg,  as  she 
listened  to  the  shouts  of  rejoicing  over  the  victory  of 
the  Federal  arms.  The  sad  man  in  the  leadership  of 
his  people  was  often  found  in  bitter  tears  over  the  brave 
death  of  some  beloved  friend  in  the  uniform  of  gray  as 
well  as  in  the  uniform  of  blue. 

Duty  lay  heavily  upon  the  great  chieftain.  He 
himself,  must  bring  the  blow  of  the  crisis  upon  his 
nation.  It  was  a  New  Year's  Day,  in  1863.  The  tall, 
lank  man  sat  in  his  cabinet-room  with  a  legal  document 
before  him.     As  he  took  up  his  pen  his  hand  trembled. 


HERO  TALES 


"I  fear,"  he  said,  "as  lie  started  to  inscribe  his 
name,  "that  posterity  will  look  at  this  signature  and 
say,  'He  hesitated.'  " 

He  rested  his  arm  a  moment  and  then  wrote  his 
name  at  the  bottom  of  the  document  with  much  care. 
Then,  examining  his  penmanship,  he  said,  with  a  smile ; 
"That  will  do.  If  my  name  ever  gets  into  history  at 
all,  it  will  be  for  this  act. ' ' 

The  news  of  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  swept 
the  country.  By  a  stroke  of  the  pen  more  than  three 
million  slaves  were  declared  to  be  free.  The  nations  of 
the  earth  were  astounded. 

The^republic  was  now  in  the  worst  convulsions  of 
war,  nearly  four  million  Americans — boys  of  an 
average  age  of  but  nineteen  years — wearing  the  blue 
and  the  gray,  were  throwing  their  lives  into  the  can- 
non's mouth  for  the  sake  of  whichever  cause  was  dear 
to  them. 

The  stroke  of  war  is  quick  and  sharp,  but  its  issue 
is  variable.  Now  it  was  the  day  of  defeat,  and  now 
the  day  of  victory.  The  American  people  upheld  the 
tall,  lank  chieftain  in  the  White  House,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  their  dismay,  re-elected  him  to  the  highest 
honor  within  their  gift.  The  day  of  the  second  inaug- 
ural was  rainy  and  gloomy,  but  as  the  beloved  son  of 
the  Kentucky  log-cabin  stood  with  head  bared  to  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  his  nation,  the  sun  burst 
through  the  clouds. 

"Fellow-countrymen,"  began  the  inaugural  ad- 
dress, "On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this  four 
years  ago,  all  thought  was  anxiously  directed  to  an 
impending  civil  war.  All  dreaded  it;  all  sought  to 
avert  it.  .  .  .  But  the  war  came.  .  .  .  Let  us  judge 
not,  that  we  be  not  judged.  .  .  .  Fondly  do  we  hope, 
feverishly  do  we  pray,  that  this  scourge  of  war  may 


THE  LOG-CABIN 


speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if  God  will  that  it  continue 
until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk, 
and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  from  the  lash  shall 
be  paid  by  another  drawn  from  the  sword,  as  was  said 
three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said:  'The 
judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  alto- 
gether.' With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for 
all,  with  firmness  in  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish 
the  work  we  are  in;  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds ;  to 
care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and  for 
his  widow,  and  his  orphan ;  to  do  all  which  may  achieve 
and  cherish  a  just  and  a  lasting  peace  among  ourselves 
and  with  all  nations." 

There  were  a  few  brief  days.  The  news  that  rang 
through  the  country  threw  a  nation  into  rejoicing. 

''The  was  is  over!  The  nation  is  saved!  The 
great  Lee  has  surrendered  at  Appomattox!" 

Bells  were  pealing  the  glad  tidings.  The  North 
was  wild  with  joy.  The  people  arose  in  triumph  as  the 
wave  of  exultation  swelled  the  hearts  of  a  continent. 
Then,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  from  a  clear  sky,  came 
the  news  that  engulfed  a  nation  in  a  tidal  wave  of  grief. 

"The  President  has  been  assassinated!" 

All  were  stunned  by  these  words,  which  were  almost 
beyond  belief.  In  the  longed-for  hour  of  triumph,  its 
beloved  leader  had  fallen  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin. 
Eage  mingled  with  the  sobs  of  a  great  people.  The 
tall,  lank  youth  from  the  Kentucky  cabin,  grown  old 
with  sorrows  and  burdens  such  as  the  world  seldom 
brings  to  man,  lay  breathing  his  last  precious  moments 
away  in  Washington — struck  down  at  the  dawn  of  the 
age  of  peace  and  good-will  which  had  so  long  been  the 
one  great  desire  of  his  heart. 

Statesmen  watched  at  his  bedside  as  the  giant 


HERO  TALES 


strength  of  the  man  born  in  the  woods  met  his  last  great 
battle — with  death.  Great  generals,  fresh  from  the 
carnage  of  the  battle-ground,  wept  like  children.  The 
night  was  dismal.  There  was  a  raw,  drizzling  rain. 
Hour  by  hour  the  pulse  of  the  dying  man  became 
weaker.  It  was  Saturday  morning — the  fifteenth  of 
April,  in  1865.  The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to 
twenty-two  minutes  after  seven.  The  physician,  aris- 
ing from  the  bedside,  remarked  hoarsely: 

''The  President  is  dead." 

A  statesman  rising  and  looking  into  the  sad  face  of 
the  great  chieftain  whispered : 

"Now  he  belongs  to  the  ages." 

And  so  he  does — this  man  from  the  Kentucky  cabin 
who  had  led  his  nation  through  its  years  of  trial  and 
brought  it  to  its  triumph.  Grief  stricken  multitudes 
of  more  than  a  million  people,  bared  their  heads,  their 
faces  streaming  with  tears,  as  he  was  borne  through 
the  thoroughfares  of  the  great  metropolis,  and  carried 
to  his  home  in  Springfield,  Illinois,  where  he  had  first 
gone  after  leaving  his  father's  house  to  pass  out  into 
the  world  to  try  and  make  a  living  for  himself.  There, 
beside  his  old  neighbors,  was  laid  to  rest  the  most 
beloved  man  in  America,  and  with  a  heart  big  enough 
to  hold  the  whole  world — Abraham  Lincoln. 


"Thy  task  is  done;  the  bond  are  free: 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 
Whose   proudest   monument   shall   be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

"Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 
Among  the  noble  host  of  those 
Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right." 


—10— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  STATESMAN  WHO 
GAVE  HIS  LIFE  TO  A  PRINCIPLE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  boy  orator 
wlio  held  his  hearers  spell-bound  and  aroused  in  their 
hearts  the  spirit  of  patriotism.     It  is  the  tale  of  his  wise 
counsel  in  the  building  of  the  Republic,  his  bravery  In  the  war 
for  independence  and  the  courageous  convictions  that  cost  him  his  life. 

THE  story  begins  in  the  heated  days  before  the 
Americans  had  issued  to  the  world  their 
Declaration  of  Independence.  The  spirit  of 
revolt  had  aroused  the  country.  Groups  of 
villagers  gathered  at  the  public  meeting  places  and 
denounced  the  King.  Severest  condemnation  was 
directed  against  those  who  refused  to  participate  in  the 
demonstrations.  They  were  branded  as  ''cowards." 
While  those  who  were  loyal  to  their  mother  country 
retaliated  with  the  epithet  of  ''rebels." 

It  was  the  sixth  day  of  July,  in  1774.  The  men  on 
the  island  of  Manhattan,  in  the  little  city  known  as  New 
York,  were  gathered  in  the  northern  fields  of  the  town. 
Men  with  agitated  gestures,  expressed  their  opinions 
of  the  King,  denouncing  his  taxation  as  imposition  and 
tyranny.  While  others,  with  deliberation  and  calm- 
ness, urged  them  to  be  more  considerate  of  the  Crown, 
and  advised  them  to  be  more  guarded  in  their  threats. 
"Shall  we  stand  by  our  sister  colonies  and  demand 
justice,  or  shall  we  let  England  keep  us  shackled  like 
slaves?" 

—11— 


HERO  TALES 


This  was  the  temper  of  the  meeting.  The  towns- 
people gathered  about  the  speakers  as  they  appealed 
for  their  sympathies.  Violence  of  tongue  was  greater 
than  that  of  deed,  however,  and  throughout  the  inter- 
rupted speeches  there  seemed  to  be  no  tendency  toward 
decisive  action. 

One  by  one  the  listeners  were  leaving  and  returning 
to  their  labors,  and  the  assemblage  was  about  to  ad- 
journ. A  tall,  clean-cut  lad  of  seventeen  years  of  age, 
arose.  He  spoke  with  calmness  and  deliberation,  but 
his  words  burned  with  honor  and  reason.  His  quiet, 
convincing  manner  hushed  the  gathering  into  silence. 

*'Who  is  this  boy  that  has  such  mastery  of  the  con- 
ditions and  whose  words  fill  our  hearts  with  the  desire 
to  do  great  things?"  was  the  question  on  the  minds  of 
the  listeners. 

The  youthful  orator  held  his  hearers  spell-bound. 
His  patriotic  eloquence  kindled  the  fire  of  patriotism  in 
their  hearts. 

''New  York  will  stand  with  the  states!" 

This  was  the  decision  of  that  moment,  and  New  York 
pledged  herself  to  the  fight  for  liberty. 

Soon,  the  rumble  of  the  drum  and  the  shrill  of  the 
fife  echoed  across  Manhattan  Island.  Seated  on 
horseback,  at  the  head  of  a  company  which  he  had 
organized,  was  this  same  youth,  now  nineteen  years  of 
age,  ready  to  go  to  war.  His  gallant  men  were  soon 
sweeping  on  to  White  Plains,  and  later  across  Long 
Island.  His  coolness  on  the  battle-line  attracted  the 
admiration  of  Washington,  and  he  was  soon  made  a 
member  of  the  great  general's  staff,  following  him  to 
Yorktown,  where  he  laid  down  his  sword,  after  a  bril- 
liant military  career. 

He  was  now  but  a  youth — twenty-four  years  of  age 
— and  life  was  just  beginning  for  him.     He  studied  law 

—12— 


THE  STATESMAN 


so  that  he  might  better  enter  into  the  moulding  of  the 
policies  of  the  new  nation.  These  first  days  of  the 
republic  were  more  critical  even  than  those  of  the  war 
had  been.  At  times,  even  brave  men  felt  like  giving 
up  the  whole  experiment,  but  in  the  lowest  moment  of 
despair,  the  figure  of  this  young  giant  of  intellect  and 
power  arose  and  carried  his  country  to  triumph.  He 
sat  in  the  cabinet  of  Washington,  the  first  president  of 
the  new  republic,  and  framed  the  financial  policy  of  the 
nation  which  has  to-day  become  the  strongest  financial 
power  in  the  world.  He  organized  its  banking  system. 
He  fought  the  great  Jefferson  in  political  debates 
greater  even  than  war.  The  two  brilliant  leaders  quar- 
reled incessantly.  A  few  months  later  found  him  again 
on  the  battle-line  in  the  supx^ression  of  the  Whisky 
Insurrection,  and  later  standing  between  the  new  re- 
public and  Prance  when  war  seemed  imminent.  The 
great  Washington  counselled  with  him  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  his  farewell  address  to  his  people.  Great  politi- 
cal doctrines  were  absorbing  the  nation.  With  many 
of  them  this  man  could  not  agree,  and  he  stood  many 
times  alone  in  upholding  the  principles  which,  accord- 
ing to  his  heart  and  reason,  were  the  ones. 

It  was  early  in  July  in  1804.  The  statesman  who 
was  in  the  height  of  his  career  of  glory,  but  whose 
greatest  usefulness  to  his  nation  had  only  just  begun, 
clasped  his  wife  to  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  The 
woman  sobbed  convulsively,  but  he  comforted  her  with 
words  of  duty  and  honor,  admonishing  her  to  care  for 
their  beloved  children.  The  moral  heroism  of  this 
man  had  brought  him  into  many  tests  of  manhood,  but 
this  was  the  supreme  test  of  all. 

The  custom  of  the  times  was  forcing  him  to  fight 
against  his  own  principles,  to  do  that  which  he  deplored, 
but  which  he  believed  his  honor  demanded. 

—13— 


HERO  TALES 


The  day  was  the  eleventh  of  the  month.  The  sun 
dawned  warm  and  bright  on  the  heights  of  Weehawken. 
Two  boats  crept  along  the  Hudson  and  nestled  to  the 
shore.  Several  men  landed  at  the  foot  of  the  ledge; 
men  whose  faces  were  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  the  nation 
and  whose  names  were  constantly  on  their  lips.  Two 
of  the  men  hurried  to  the  seclusion  beneath  the  ledge. 
They  stood  for  a  moment  facing  each  other.  Each  in 
his  hand  held  a  pistol. 

''Are  you  ready?"  asked  a  stern  voice. 

' '  We  are ! ' '  replied  both  men  firmly. 

*' Present!"  commanded  the  stern  voice. 

The  younger  of  the  men  paused  an  instant;  took 
deliberate  aim — and  fired. 

The  other  man  convulsively  raised  himself  upon 
his  toes,  and  fell  forward  upon  his  face,  his  pistol  ex- 
ploding as  he  did  so,  and  the  bullet  whizzing  high 
through  the  foliage  of  the  trees. 

The  report  of  the  pistol  brought  a  doctor  and  sev- 
eral companions  to  the  spot.  The  man  who  had  fired 
the  fatal  shot  was  hurried  to  the  boat.  The  man  who 
had  been  wounded  was  lifted  to  a  sitting  posture.  He 
had  been  struck  in  the  right  side. 

' '  This  is  a  mortal  wound, ' '  he  gasped  and  fell  into 
a  swoon. 

They  lifted  him  in  their  arms  and  bore  him  tenderly 
to  the  river  bank.  His  wandering  eyes  looked  into 
their  faces. 

"My  vision  is  indistinct,"  he  whispered. 

As  his  eyes  fell  upon  his  pistol,  he  spoke  excitedly. 

"Take  care  of  that  pistol,"  he  said.  "It  is  un- 
discharged and  still  cocked.  It  may  go  off  and  do 
harm." 

Then  he  turned  his  head  to  the  faithful  friend  who 
had  acted  as  his  second  in  the  tragic  event. 

—14^ 


THE  STATESMAN 


*'He  knows,"  he  exclaimed,  ''that  I  did  not  intend 
to  fire!" 

He  bade  them  to  send  for  his  wife. 

*'Let  my  condition  be  gradually  broken  to  her;  but 
— give  her  hopes." 

The  news  of  the  tragedy  aroused  the  nation. 

"The  greatest  statesman  of  the  republic  is  gone!" 
were  the  words  that  were  heralded  by  horseman  and 
stage,  by  messenger  and  neighbor,  from  village  to 
village  and  house  to  house.  Political  antagonists,  who 
had  feared  him,  appeared  to  rejoice,  but  the  masses  of 
the  people  arose  against  them,  for  they  were  overcome 
with  grief. 

Throughout  the  day  the  great  statesman  lingered  in 
intense  suffering.  His  wife  and  children  were  at  Tiis 
couch.  Again  and  again,  he  sought  consolation  for 
them  in  his  implicit  faith  in  God,  and  his  love  for  his 
fellow-men. 

"I  want  it  said,"  he  directed,  "that  I  had  no  ill-will 
against  Colonel  Burr.  I  met  him  with  a  fixed  resolu- 
tion to  do  him  no  harm.    I  forgive  all  that  happened." 

Then  he  became  weaker;  the  pain  abated.  He 
clasped  the  hand  of  his  wife  and  held  it  to  his  lips. 

"Eemember,  my  Eliza,"  he  whispered.  "You  are 
a  Christian. ' ' 

'' Alexander  Hamilton  is  dead!" 

The  throngs  that  had  lingered  for  hours  about  the 
bulletin-boards  of  the  newspaper  offices  in  the  larger 
cities  mingled  rage  and  execration  with  grief  and  sobs. 
The  city  was  not  now  a  safe  place  for  Aaron  Burr,  the 
man  who  had  fired  the  fatal  shot,  although  he  fled  for 
his  life,  never  to  regain  his  former  position  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen.  It  was  charged,  that  through 
taunts  affecting  his  honor,  he  had  led  the  great  states- 
man into  the  duel ;  that  he  had  known  that  it  was  against 


HERO  TALES 


his  principles,  but  that  he  had  hounded  him  into  the 
fatal  tragedy. 

This  is  the  story  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  the  mag- 
netic boy-orator,  the  cavalry  leader,  the  aide  to  Wash- 
ington, the  secretary  of  his  treasury,  the  most  hated 
political  rival  of  Jefferson  in  the  first  days  of  the  re- 
public, and  the  enemy  of  the  political  doctrines  repre- 
sented by  Aaron  Burr.  It  is  the  tale  of  Alexander 
Hamilton,  the  most  brilliant  statesman  of  his  time, 
whose  unselfish  levotion  to  his  country  and  whose 
heroism,  even  to  the  last  tragic  day  of  his  life,  are  not 
excelled  in  the  annals  of  the  nations. 


"In  toil  he  lived;  in  peace  he  died; 
When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 
And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

"His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 

Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried. 
Whose  heart  was  lilj;e  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

"Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill. 
It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 
And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 

"In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids; 
His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 
On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep!" 


—16— 


THE  NEW  YO«K   ' 
PUBLIC  L15*IARY 


AP3-OR,  LBINOX 
TJLDEN  FOUNDATICTNS 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG  IN 
THE  SNOWS  OF  CANADA 


This  is  tine  tale  of  the  soldiers 
who  carried  the  flag  of  liberty  against  the  Gibraltar  of 
the  New  World;  who  tried  to  plant  the  Stars  and  Stripes  on 
the  citadel  of  the  great  donninion.     It  is  a  tale  of  a  man  who  died 
for  his  adopted  country,  but  will  live  forever  in  the  hearts  of  Americans. 

IT  WAS  in  the  years  when  America  first  became 
known  as  the  land  of  opportunity.  Thousands  of 
courageous  men  were  breaking  their  home-ties  in 
the  Old  World  and  coming  to  the  New  World  to 
seek  fortune  and  happiness.  Men  of  royal  blood  and 
large  estates  were  joining  the  pilgrimage  to  the  New 
America.  It  was  the  domain  of  the  British  King,  and 
many  of  his  court-favorites  took  up  leases  of  land  in  the 
colonies  across  the  sea.  To  protect  their  interests  from 
the  envy  and  aggression  of  other  Old- Wo  rid  powers,  the 
King  sent  his  soldiers  to  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

It  was  a  day  in  1757.  A  ship  bearing  the  King's 
soldiers  was  coming  into  port.  Among  the  brave  men 
who  landed  from  it  on  the  new  shores  was  a  young  lad, 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  with  strong  Irish  features.  In 
the  north,  the  French  were  harassing  the  English  col- 
onists. The  British  soldiers  were  hurried  from  their 
ship  to  the  borders. 

On  the  second  of  June,  in  the  following  year,  ten 
thousand  of  the  King's  men  stood  before  the  fortress 
at  Louisburg  in   Canada,   and   stormed   the   citadel. 

—17— 


HERO  TALES 


Under  terrific  fire,  fighting  surf  and  cannon,  ship  and 
army,  for  fifty-five  days,  the  French  stronghold  was 
besieged,  until  the  French  ships  were  in  flames  or  cap- 
tured, half  the  garrison  were  wounded  or  dead,  and  the 
strongest  military  j3oint  in  America  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  British. 

On  the  British  firing-line  stood  this  young  Irish  lad, 
fighting  with  the  courage  and  persistence  which  have 
made  his  race  famous.  Two  years  later,  as  the  British 
stormed  Montreal,  this  same  Irish  lad  stood  in  the 
ranks.  Year  after  year,  he  followed  the  fortunes  of  his 
flag  in  many  countries,  but  in  his  heart  he  loved  best  the 
new  land — America. 

"I  will  give  up  fighting,"  he  resolved,  **  and  go  to 
America  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  days." 

So  in  1772,  he  sold  his  commission  and  returned  to 
America.  He  settled  on  a  large  farm  overlooking  the 
Hudson,  and  married,  leading  the  life  of  an  American 
colonist. 

Three  years  later,  when  liberty  was  the  great  po- 
litical issue,  this  retired  British  soldier  stood  on  the 
floor  of  the  Provincial  Congress  in  New  York.  His 
heart  was  true  to  the  flag  under  which  he  had  so  gal- 
lantly fought,  but  he  loved,  too,  the  spirit  of  freedom 
which  is  inherent  in  his  race.  The  stroke  for  inde- 
pendence was  a  daring  one.  The  young  American  must 
depend  upon  the  spirit  of  its  cause  rather  than  the 
strength  of  armies. 

"Will  you  accept  a  commission'as  brigadier-general 
in  the  American  army?"  asked  a  revolutionary  leader 
of  this  retired  British  soldier. 

He  hesitated  between  love  and  duty. 

''The  will  of  any  oppressed  people  compelled  to 
choose  between  liberty  and  slavery,"  he  exclaimed, 
"must  be  obeved!" 

—18— 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 


It  was  now  the  autumn  of  1775.  The  lines  of  the 
Continental  army  were  drawn  up  before  the  great  Eng- 
lish stronghold  of  Montreal,  in  an  attempt  to  effect 
the  conquest  of  Canada.  In  command  of  the  American 
army  was  the  British  soldier,  who,  fifteen  years  before 
had  stood  on  the  same  fighting-ground  under  the  flag 
against  which  he  now  led  an  army,  and  had  forced  it 
to  surrender  to  the  ensign  of  liberty,  which  he  was  now 
carrying  to  victory. 

*'We  have  captured  Montreal,"  he  said  to  his  com- 
rades, "but  till  Quebec  is  taken,  Canada  is  uncon- 
quered." 

It  was  then  November,  and  the  weather  was  very 
severe.  Food  and  ammunition  were  giving  out.  Many 
soldiers,  unwilling  to  face  starvation,  deserted.  Some 
of  the  officers  declared  that  not  a  man  would  ever  return 
to  the  colonies  alive. 

"Till  Quebec  is  taken,  Canada  is  unconquered, " 
was  the  constant  retort  of  the  undaunted  general,  and 
with  but  three  hundred  soldiers  remaining  he  pushed 
on  over  the  frozen  ground  and  drifting  snows. 

The  morning  of  the  first  of  December  dawned.  Far 
over  the  hills  could  be  seen  the  snow-covered  forms  of 
moving  men.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  until  they 
were  within  hailing  distance.  The  shout  that  went  up 
from  the  brave  band  of  three  hundred  men  rang  through 
the  snow-clad  forests.  Eelief  had  come.  There,  before 
them,  stood  six  hundred  sturdy  Americans,  who 
through  trackless  forests  and  snow-bound  mountains 
had  marched  to  the  rescue  of  the  heroes  of  Montreal. 

The  two  generals  clasped  hands,  and  General 
Robert  Montgomery,  the  hero  of  Montreal  and  the 
ex-British  soldier,  now  the  leader  of  the  faithful  three 
hundred  under  the  flag  of  independence,  looked  into 
the  face  of  Benedict  Arnold,  who  with  his  daring  six 

—19— 


HERO  TALES 


hundred  had  performed  one  of  the  bravest  marches 
in  the  American  Eevolution. 

The  entire  force,  now  under  General  Montgomery, 
numbered  about  nine  hundred.  But  the  real  effective 
strength  of  his  army  was  considerably  less.  The  ter- 
rible cold  of  the  Canadian  winter  benumbed  and  para- 
lyzed them;  their  food  was  insufficient;  sickness  broke 
out.  But  worse  than  all — many  of  the  discouraged 
soldiers  became  mutinous.  The  British,  who  were  de- 
fending Quebec,  were  warmly  housed  and  comfortably 
clothed.  In  their  desperation  some  of  the  famished, 
half-frozen  Americans  deserted  to  the  enemy. 

The  city  of  Quebec  looked  out  over  the  St.  Lawrence 
River,  from  its  rocky,  precipitous  bluff — the  Gibraltar 
of  the  Western  Hemisphere.  But  fifteen  years  before, 
the  British  flag  had  been  carried  up  the  sheer  walls  of 
that  cliff  by  a  man  who  had  fought  side  by  side  at 
Louisburg  under  the  same  colors  with  the  general  who 
now  was  to  risk  his  life  to  unfurl  the  new  American 
flag  over  the  coveted  stronghold. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  last  day  of 
1775.  There  was  a  pelting  hail-storm.  In  the  black- 
ness^ of  the  night,  shielding  their  faces  from  the  bitter, 
stinging  hail,  and  holding  their  coat-lapels  over  their 
guns  to  keep  the  priming  dry,  the  American  soldiers 
moved  forward. 

A  volley  burst  from  the  guns  of  the  fortification. 

* '  Men  of  New  York, ' '  shouted  Montgomery  in  front 
of  his  troops,  "You  will  not  fear  to  follow  where  your 
general  leads.  March  on,  brav©  boys!  Quebeo  Es 
ours ! ' ' 

The  echo  of  the  artillery  died  away  for  a  moment. 
The  body  of  General  Mongomery  lay  dead  in  the  snow, 
the  words  of  courage  still  on  his  lips. 

The  American  soldiers  staggered  under  the  terrific 
—20— 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG 


fire.  The  artillery  thundered.  Benedict  Arnold,  lead- 
ing his  division,  fell  wounded  but  held  command  of  his 
men. 

The  American  soldiers,  after  a  last  desperate  effort, 
fled  in  retreat.  The  British  flag  still  waves,  even  to  this 
day,  over  the  citadel  of  Quebec,  and  visitors  to  the  city 
as  they  drive  along  the  river  are  shown  the  rock  where 
the  dauntless  Montgomery  attempted  to  plant  the 
American  flag  when  he  fell  on  that  bitter  winter  day  in 

1775. 

The  epaulets  of  the  brigadier-general  were  placed 
on  the  daring  Arnold,  but  far  better  had  it  been  if  he, 
too,  had  given  his  life  on  that  heroic  day,  as  years  later 
found  him  selling  his  country  for  a  mess  of  pottage, 
and,  as  he  died  a  fugitive  from  his  country  and  held  in 
infamy,  these  words  of  a  broken  heart  were  on  his  lips : 

''Let  me  die  in  the  old  uniform  in  which  I  fought 
my  battles  for  freedom.  May  God  forgive  me  for  put- 
ting on  any  other. ' ' 


"The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  Las  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo! 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread; 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

"Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown. 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb." 


—21— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  INDIAN  SLAVE  GIRL 
WHO  UNLOCKED  THE  NORTHWEST 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  the  Indian  slave  girl 
who  led  civilization  into  new  and  untrodden  paths  and 
opened  to  the  world  the  wealth  of  the  Great  Northwest.     It  is  the 
tale  of  a  savage  mother  who  piloted  the  first  white  nnen  across  the 
continent  to  the  Pacific  and  revealed  to  them  a  new  world  of  opportunity. 

EVEN  though  we  hear  little  of  the  lives  of  these 
first  American  women,  it  does  not  mean 
necessarily  that  no  acts  of  heroism  were  ever 
enacted  by  them.  Forced  into  the  back- 
ground by  their  despotic  masters,  they  had  not  much 
opportunity  to  show  the  nobility  of  their  characters. 
There  was  one,  however,  whose  light  was  too  strong  to 
**be  hid  under  a  bushel."  The  achievement  of  this 
Indian  woman  has  come  down  through  the  past  century, 
and  to-day  splendid  monuments  are  being  erected  to  her 
memory  throughout  the  western  country. 

It  was  a  full  hundred  years  ago  that  the  tribe  of 
Indians,  known  to  history  as  the  Shoshones,  made  their 
home  a  little  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  or,  as  the 
range  was  called  by  them,  the  "Bitter  Root  Moun- 
tains." Here  it  was  that  Sacajawea,  and  her  little 
friends  played  their  childish  games,  with  no  thought  of 
anything  outside  of  their  own  lives.  It  was  not  always 
play-time  even  among  those  children;  from  infancy 
they  were  taught  to  labor  with  their  hands,  and  their 
education  in  other  respects  was  not  neglected.    At  a 

—22— 


THE  INDIAN  SLAVE  GIRL 


surprisingly  early  age,  they  became  skilled  in  the  use 
of  the  bow,  and  they  were  sent  into  the  forest  to  gather 
herbs  and  roots,  for  medicine  and  food. 

One  day,  into  this  peaceful  valley,  without  warning, 
the  powerful  Minnetarees,  or  Blackfeet,  tribe  swept 
down  in  battle  array.  Devastation  followed  in  their 
wake.  Many  of  the  Shoshones  were  killed  and  many 
were  carried  away  into  captivity.  Among  the  captives 
was  little  Sacajawea.  Away  over  the  mountains  she 
was  borne  into  the  far,  far  east.  Naturally  alert  and 
observing,  the  little  maid  absorbed  every  incident  of 
this  new  experience,  so  that  in  after  years,  when  trav- 
eling back  over  this  same  country,  she  was  able  to 
recognize  most  of  the  landmarks  on  the  way. 

Sacajawea  was  sold  as  a  slave  when  she  reached 
the  east.  A  French  Canadian,  named  Charboneau, 
who  was  an  Indian  interpreter,  bought  her  when  she 
was  only  five  years  old.  When  she  was  fourteen  he 
made  her  his  wife,  and  a  year  later  a  son  was  born  to 
her. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  American  explorers  were 
looking  toward  the  great,  mysterious  region  in  the  Far 
West.  They  believed  that  it  was  a  land  of  great  wealth, 
and  they  longed  to  plant  the  American  flag  on  its  moun- 
tains. Men  called  them  foolhardy  and  said  that  it  was 
a  worthless  jungle  of  forests  and  rocks  and  beasts; 
that  it  was  not  worth  the  risk  of  life  it  would  take  to 
survey  it. 

But  there  were  two  explorers — Lewis  and  Clarke — 
who  were  willing  to  undertake  it.  Shortly  after  start- 
ing on  their  hazardous  journey,  they  entered  the  little 
Indian  village  of  Mandan.  There  they  found  Char- 
boneau, who  could  talk  many  tongues.  Their  eyes 
fell  also  upon  the  little  Indian  mother,  Sacajawea. 
Charboneau  told  them  that  his  Indian  wife  knew  the 

—23— 


HERO  TALES 


whole  country,  and  was  a  natural  guide.  Sacajawea, 
in  her  native  tongue,  told  them  how  she  knew  the  trails ; 
how  she  could  take  them  through  country,  never  before 
traveled  by  the  feet  of  white  men ;  and  how  she  could 
show  them  the  beauties  of  the  land  of  her  birth,  with 
its  towering  blue  mountains,  capped  with  snow,  and  its 
golden  valleys,  its  gorges  and  rivers,  its  glittering 
sands,  and  its  thousand  and  one  beauties  that  have  since 
given  it  the  name  of  the  ''Garden  of  the  Gods." 

"We  will  go  with  you,"  said  Charboneau  and 
Sacajawea. 

And  so  it  was  that  when  that  expedition,  which 
opened  up  the  western  domain  of  America,  started  on 
the  most  perilous  portion  of  its  journey,  Sacajawea  was 
the  guide  and  Charboneau  the  interpreter.  Sacajawea 
strapped  her  two  months'  old  baby  on  her  shoulders, 
and  carried  him  in  this  snug  pocket  throughout  the  en- 
tire journey.  She  was  the  only  woman  in  the  party 
and  she  rendered  vital  service  to  the  explorers. 

Into  the  heart  of  the  wilderness  they  plunged.  When 
all  signs  of  human  life  were  left  far  behind  them,  and 
there  were  none  to  beckon  them  onward,  then  it  was 
that  the  native  instinct  of  this  woman  came  to  their 
assistance,  and  the  great  explorers  were  willing  and 
thankful  to  throw  themselves  upon  her  guidance.  At 
times  sickness  or  starvation  seemed  imminent.  Then 
Sacajawea  would  go  into  the  woods,  where  in  secret  she 
gathered  herbs  to  cure  each  ailment ;  or  dug  roots,  from 
which  she  prepared  savory  dishes  for  their  meals. 

The  men  marveled  at  the  courage  and  ingenuity  of 
this  faithful  pilot.  Burdened  though  she  was  with  the 
care  of  the  young  child,  she  never  seemed  to  feel  fatigue. 
No  complaint  ever  escaped  her  lips.  Patient,  plucky, 
and  determined,  she  was  a  constant  source  of  inspira- 
tion to  the  explorers. 

—24— 


THE  INDIAN  SLAVE  GIRL 


The  baby  laughed  and  cooed  as  the  wonders  of  the 
world  were  revealed  to  it.  With  all  its  mother's  fear- 
lessness, it  swung  calmly  on  her  faithful  back  while 
she  climbed  over  jagged  precipices  and  forded  swiftly 
running  rivers. 

One  day  a  little  incident  occurred,  which  illustrates 
the  true  character  of  this  Indian  woman.  While  mak- 
ing their  way  along  one  of  the  rivers,  her  husband,  in  a 
clumsy  attempt  to  readjust  things,  overturned  the 
canoe  containing  every  article  necessary  for  the  jour- 
ney. Without  a  moment's  hesitation  Sacajawea 
plunged  into  the  river,  risking  her  own  life  and  that  of 
the  infant  strapped  to  her.  Clothing,  bundles,  and 
many  valuable  documents  of  the  expedition  were  thus 
rescued.  If  these  things  had  been  lost,  the  party  would 
have  been  obliged  to  retrace  its  steps  hundreds  of  miles, 
in  order  to  replace  them.  This  is,  indeed,  the  heroisni 
that  makes  history.  The  alertness  of  Sacajawea 's 
native  instinct,  and  her  faithful  kindness  worked 
inestimable  benefit  to  our  nation.  In  gratitude  for  her 
great  services,  the  explorers  named  after  her  the  next 
river  that  they  discovered. 

"^  Some  months  later,  scenes  began  to  take  on  a 
familiar  aspect  to  Sacajawea,  and  she  showed  signs  of 
elation.  She  pointed  out  old  landmarks  which  indi- 
cated that  she  was  nearing  her  old  home.  They  at  last 
pitched  their  camp  where  years  before,  as  a  little  child, 
she  had  been  taken  captive.  Here  she  soon  found  old 
friends,  and  to  her  unspeakable  delight  she  discovered 
among  them  her  own  brother.  Wrapped  closely  in  his 
arms,  she  sobbed  out  all  the  sorrow  which  had  been 
bound  up  in  her  heart  for  so  many  years.  From  him 
she  learned  that  all  of  her  family  had  died,  except  two 
of  her  brothers  and  a  son  of  her  eldest  sister. 

Sacajawea  was  at  home  again.     Now  and  then  little 
—25— 


HERO  TALES 


snatches  of  songs  of  contentment  reached  the  ears  of 
the  members  of  the  great  expedition.  They  might 
naturally  have  thought  that  now  it  would  not  be  easy 
for  the  girl  to  attend  them  on  their  westward  journey. 
But  if  they  entertained  this  fear,  they  misjudged 
Sacajawea.  She  never  flinched  from  her  first  intention, 
and  cheerfully  left  her  long-lost  friends  to  plunge  once 
more  into  the  unbroken  and  unknown  forests  beyond 
the  Rockies.  The  solitude  was  enough  to  shake  a  strong 
man's  courage.  Never  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  except 
the  dismal,  distant  howl  of  wild  beasts  and  occasionally 
the  war-cry  of  savages,  but  Sacajawea  did  not  falter. 

Thus  they  plodded  overland,  ever  westward  until 
the  end  of  the  journey  drew  near.  They  made  a  camp 
inland,  leaving  Sacajawea  in  its  protection,  and  then 
pushed  to  the  coast. 

''It  is  the  Pacific!"  they  cried  at  last. 

In  their  enthusiasm,  the  explorers  forgot  the  brave 
Sacajawea.  They  talked  of  the  Pacific  in  the  camp, 
but  did  not  allow  her  to  go  to  the  coast  until  she  pleaded 
with  them  to  let  her  gaze  upon  the  waters,  to  behold 
which  she  had  made  the  long  journey. 

Then  she  was  satisfied.  She  had  seen  the  ''great 
waters"  and  the  "fish,"  as  she  called  the  whale  which 
spouted  on  its  heaving  bosom. 

It  was  an  epoch-making  journey,  in  which  the  path 
was  blazed  by  a  woman.  It  rivaled  the  great  explora- 
tions of  Stanley  and  Livingstone  in  daring,  and  far 
exceeded  them  in  importance.  It  was  an  expedition 
that  moved  the  world  along ;  that  pushed  the  boundary 
of  the  United  States  from  the  Mississippi  to  the  Pacific ; 
that  gave  us  the  breadth  of  the  continent  from  ocean  to 
ocean;  that  command  of  its  rivers  and  harbors,  the 
wealth  of  its  mountains,  plains  and  valleys — a  dominion 
vast  enough  for  the  ambitions  of  kings. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  ROUGH  RIDERS  WHO 
CARRIED  THE  FLAG  TO  VICTORY 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  Rough  Riders 
and  the  inspiration  of  a  man  who  led  more  than  a  thou- 
sand other  men  in  a  charge  of  triumph.    It  is  a  tale  that  recalls 
the  ancient  days  of  chivalry  and  yet  so  modern  that  he  who  reads 
these  lines  may  have  been  one  of  the  heroes  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

SPAIN,  once  a  great  world-power,  and  once  the 
birth-place  of  daring  and  adventurous  men, 
was  engaged  in  war  with  a  younger,  but  more 
powerful  nation,  a  nation  which  its  own  genius 
had  revealed  to  the  world,  the  United  States  of  Am- 
erica. The  Island  of  Cuba,  in  the  West  Indies,  long  a 
Spanish  dependency,  was  the  first  scene  of  active 
warfare. 

Traditions  of  Spain's  unjust  taxation  and  shocking 
cruelties  had  come  down  through  the  generations.  The 
native  Cubans  had  been  in  a  state  of  intermittent- 
rebellion  for  many  years,  dreaming  of  the  attainment 
of  their  independence — but  their  few  volunteer  patriots 
had  been  powerless  against  the  trained  soldiers  of  the 
ancient  Spanish  dynasty. 

The  eyes  of  the  world  were  on  this  unequal  struggle. 
Appeals  to  Spain  to  be  more  humane  and  just  to  her 
helpless  subjects  were  unheeded.  The  Cubans  had 
turned  with  arms  uplifted  in  supplication  for  assistance 
to  the  young  republic  of  the  Western  Continent — the 
nation  that  little  more  than  a  hundred  years  before  had 

—27— 


HERO  TALES 


thrown  off  the  yoke  of  British  thraldom  and  unfurled 
the  standard  of  liberty  to  the  world. 

The  young  republic  had  heard  the  cry,  and  its  sol- 
diers and  sailors  were  carrying  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
to  the  oppressed  island  of  the  tropical  seas. 

The  war  had  continued  for  some  time.  The  United 
States  army,  contending  with  strange  conditions  and 
pest-ridden  swamps,  had  taken  up  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity with  the  same  spirit  that  had  made  their  own 
early  struggle  for  freedom  one  of  the  most  notable  in 
the  annals  of  mankind.  The  unorganized  patriots  of 
the  island  had  thrown  the  burden  of  the  war  upon  the 
trained  soldiers  who  marched  under  the  Ensign  of 
Liberty. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  hot  day  on  the  first  of  July,  in 
1898,  even  for  this  tropical  country.  The  American 
army  of  invasion  stood  in  front  of  El  Caney  and  San 
Juan. 

The  soldiers  had  lain  for  hours  in  the  fever-laden 
air  of  the  jungle,  awaiting  the  order  to  advance  on 
San  Juan,  the  key  to  Santiago,  where  the  final  blow 
of  the  war  was  to  be  struck.  The  tropical  sun  beat 
down  on  the  regiments  of  restless  men,  willing  and 
eager  to  unlock  the  strategic  doors  that  led  to  the  path 
to  final  victory  or  heroic  defeat. 

There  were  the  United  States  regulars,  disciplined 
by  years  of  training  under  the  greatest  military  leaders 
of  the  age.  There  were  the  men  recruited  from  the 
militia,  who  had  heard  the  call  to  arms  and  had  offered 
their  lives  to  aid  in  freeing  Cuba  from  Spanish 
despotism.  But  strangest  among  them  was  a  division 
of  unmounted  cavalrymen,  the  like  of  whom  had  never 
before  been  seen  on  a  battle-line.  They  were  men  not 
used  to  war  upon  mankind,  but  to  the  clearing  of  the 
wilderness  for  civilization;  men  who  had  swept  the 

—28— 


THE  ROUGH  RIDERS 


Southwest  with  the  lasso  and  driven  the  buffalo  from 
the  prairies, — whose  bronzed  faces  spoke  no  fear  and 
whose  hearts  had  never  known  defeat,  who  were  to 
make  the  desperate  charge  against  Old  Spain.  These 
men,  who  had  conquered  the  western  hills  and  valleys, 
were  now  eager  to  conquer  an  old-world  power,  and  to 
plant  the  flag  of  freedom  on  the  palm-covered  hills  of 
unhappy  Cuba.  Among  these  ''cow-punchers," 
and  "rangers,"  were  many  so-called  "society  men," 
the  sons  of  rich  Americans  who  had  tired  of  the  tame- 
ness  of  luxurious  city  life,  and  had  learned  to  love  the 
heart  of  the  plains. 

In  command,  was  a  strong,  bronzed  man,  whose 
personality  breathed  courage,  and  whose  face  was  lined 
with  determination.  He  had  long  known  the  plains, 
for  he  had  gone  to  them  many  years  before,  in  order 
to  gain  from  nature  its  health  and  robustness. 

"You've  got  to  perform  without  flinching  whatever 
duty  is  assigned  to  you,  regardless  of  its  difficulty  or 
danger.    No  matter  what  comes,  you  must  not  squeal ! ' ' 

These  were  the  homely  words  with  which  he  had 
inspired  them  until  they  were  restless  for  an  oppor- 
tunity for  hard  and  daring  deeds. 

At  day-break,  the  boom  of  the  cannon  and  the  echo 
of  the  rifles  along  the  valley,  had  aroused  the  fighting 
men.  The  cavalry,  dismounted,  had  advanced  up  the 
valley  from  the  hill  of  El  Pozo,  fording  several  streams, 
where  they  were  under  fire  and  lost  heavily.  They 
were  now  deployed  at  the  foot  of  the  series  of  hills 
known  as  San  Juan,  under  a  sharp  fusilade  from  all 
sides,  which  was  exceedingly  effective,  because  the 
enemy  could  not  be  discerned,  owing  to  the  long  range 
and  smokeless  powder.  Nearer  and  nearer  had  come 
the  fire  until  all  along  the  line  from  El  Caney  the  hot 
blaze  of  the  Mauser  bullets  flashed  from  the  trenches. 

—29— 


HERO  TALES 


The  commander  of  the  force,  at  the  foot  of  San  Juan, 
strode  up  and  down  his  line,  and  with  a  hearty  ' '  Steady, 
boys,"  he  held  their  eager  spirits  in  check  until  the 
final  command  should  come  to  charge  the  hill. 

The  suspense  of  lying  still  under  the  terrific  fire 
while  other  regiments  were  in  action,  was  almost 
beyond  endurance.  One  by  one  the  minutes  dragged 
slowly  by,  each  one  meaning  another  sacrifice  to  Spanish 
bullets. 

An  officer,  mounting  a  fiery  horse,  swung  along  the 
line  and  halted  beside  the  commander.  A  stirring  in 
the  ranks  of  the  men  showed  that  they  realized  the 
import  of  the  message.  It  did  not  need  the  order  from 
their  colonel's  lips  to  tell  them  that  their  moment  had 
come.    The  joy  in  his  face  told  its  own  story. 

The  command  to  advance  ran  along  the  line.  Under 
steady  formation  they  moved  to  the  clearing  in  front 
of  them.  A  sudden  dash  and  they  were  across  to  the 
sheltering  jungle  beyond.  The  fire  of  the  Spaniards 
had  been  accurate  and  several  brave  plainsmen  never 
reached  the  shelter  of  the  woods,  but  lay  wounded  or 
dead  in  the  glare  of  the  sun.  The  death  of  their  com- 
rades only  served  to  increase  the  desire  of  the  rest  to 
get  close  to  their  foes  at  the  top  of  that  long  stretch  of 
hill.  The  approach  was  commanded  by  a  block-house 
and  trenches  filled  with  Spanish  soldiers,  armed  with 
the  most  modern  and  deadly  of  guns.  From  their  posi- 
tion on  the  crest  of  this  long,  steep  hill,  they  could 
sweep  the  oncoming  soldiers  with  a  terrific  hail  of 
bullets  and  shell. 

All  the  obstacles  which  the  ingenuity  of  modern  war- 
fare could  devise,  had  been  thrown  in  their  path.  Now 
they  were  tripped  and  gashed  by  the  thongs  that  had 
been  cunningly  strung  along  the  hill.  Now  they  were 
cutting  their  wav  through  barbed  wire  and  over  pointed 

—30— 


THE  ROUGH  RIDERS 


stakes.      The  storm  of  bullets  was  rapidly  thinning 
their  ranks. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  brave 
plainsmen  had  been  under  fire  for  two  hours,  when,  by 
slow,  painful  advances  under  withering  volleys,  the 
brow  of  the  hill  was  reached. 

Suddenly,  the  heroic  officer  of  the  command,  a  hun- 
dred feet  in  advance  of  his  men,  disappeared.  But 
soon  he  was  up  again  and  shouting  harder  than  ever, 
as  he  urged  his  men  on !  His  horse  had  been  shot  from 
under  him,  but  he  had  disentangled  himself  and  was 
soon  again  in  the  midst  of  this  rain  of  steel,  on  foot, 
cheering  and  waving  his  sword,  undaunted  by  the  loss 
which  had  brought  him  so  close  to  death.  When  his 
horse  had  been  struck,  he  had  himself  been  wounded  in 
the  hand.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment.  Then, 
whipping  out  his  handkerchief,  he  bound  it  about  the 
bleeding  member.  Holding  it  up  and  waving  it  above 
his  head  at  the  soldiers,  he  cried : 

"See  here,  boys;  I've  got  it,  too!" 

The  fire  was  deadly.  The  Americans,  unable  to  see 
their  foes,  who  were  concealed  behind  the  entrench- 
ments and  in  a  blockhouse,  could  not  return  the  fire. 
Some  of  the  officers  suggested  that  it  would  be  well  to 
fall  back  and  leave  the  blockhouse  in  possession  of  the 
Spaniards. 

The  commander  grasped  at  his  pistol. 

"You  can  fall  back  if  you  want  to,"  he  said,  "but 
my  men  will  hold  it  till  the  last  man  dies." 

"Win  or  die,"  was  the  slogan  that  rang  through 
the  lines. 

The  sight  was  magnificent. 

A  yell  like  that  of  madmen !  Then  the  commander 
dashed  into  a  hail  of  bullets,  cheering  as  if  possessed 
with  demons. 

—31— 


HERO  TALES 


' '  San  Juan  is  ours  I ' ' 

The  shout  rang  along  the  hills  and  vibrated  through 
the  valleys.  The  gallant  Spaniards,  losing  heart  at  the 
sight  of  this  courageous  assault,  were  deserting  their 
posts  and  fleeing  down  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 

The  door  to  victory  was  unlocked,  and  on  the  mor- 
row the  last  stand  before  Santiago  would  be  made. 

The  news  of  the  victory  swept  across  the  island, 
bringing  joy  to  the  hearts  of  the  struggling  Cubans,  who 
now  saw  the  dawn  of  freedom.  It  thrilled  the  patriotic 
heart  of  every  American  as  it  swept  through  the  states. 
It  brought  dismay  to  the  throne  of  Spain. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Eoosevelt  Bough  Eiders.  A 
sturdier  body  of  men  never  followed  a  flag. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  brave  deeds  of  Theodore 
Eoosevelt,  which  made  him  the  hero  of  his  people,  and 
the  memory  of  which  raised  him  to  the  governorship  of 
his  state,  and  the  vice-presidency  of  his  nation.  Thence, 
through  the  assassination  of  the  good  McKinley,  he 
became  President  of  the  United  States,  and  finally  was 
elected  to  the  Presidency  for  a  second  term  by  the 
tremendous  voice  of  the  nation.  He  has  fought  the 
subtle  foes  of  dishonesty  in  high  places,  and  the  greed 
which  robs  the  people,  with  even  more  of  valor  than  he 
displayed  on  San  Juan  hill. 


"Glorious  flag  of  liberty! 

Law  and  Love  revealing, 
All  the  downcast  turn  to  thee, 

For  thy  help  appealing. 
In  the  front  for  human  right, 

Flash  thy  stars  of  morning." 


—32— 


Tk'E  NEW  yotJC 
PUBLIC  LiS^.ARY 


.-..IONS 


THE  TALE   OF   THE  FIRST  AMERICAN 
FLEET  TO  CHALLENGE  THE  SEAS 


This  Is  the  tale  of  the  Yankee  ships 
that  first  carried  the  flag  of  liberty  to  the  gates  of 
the  Old  World,  flaunting  its  warning  in  the  face  of  tyranny 
and  defying  the  strength  of  monar^hial  power  to  lower  the  colors 

i  that  proclainned  to  the  world  the  dawn  of  a  new  age  and  a  new  people. 

IT  WAS  in  the  year  of  1779.    During  the  revolu- 
tionary war.    The  colonists  had  met  with  varying 
success  on  land,  sometimes  driving  the  English  in 
utter  rout,  oftentimes  themselves  driven  head- 
long from  the  battlefield. 

On  the  seas,  the  poor  little  American  privateers, 
schooners  and  merchant  ships,  in  fact  anything  that 
would  float  and  carry  a  crew  and  a  few  small  cannon, 
contested  with  the  larger  ships  of  the  powerful  King's 
navy,  and,  through  the  bravery  of  commander  and 
crew,  bore  off  many  of  the  British  ships  as  prizes. 

It  was  the  twenty-third  of  September.  A  squadron 
of  five  small  American  vessels  were  cruising  off  the 
coast  of  England,  under  the  flagship  BonJiomme 
Richard,  an  old  East  Indiaman  merchant  ship,  long 
since  condemned  as  unseaworthy.  The  ship  had  been 
sold  to  be  broken  up.  The  Americans  had  obtained  her 
and  after  patching  up  her  rotten  hulk,  mounted  forty 
guns  and  set  her  afloat  as  a  ship  of  war. 

In  the  Baltic  sea,  the  daring  commander  of  the 
American  ships,  spied  a  fleet  of  British  merchantmen, 

—33— 


HERO  TALES 


couvoyed  by  two  new  frigates,  the  Serapis  and  the 
Countess  of  Scarborough.  Sails  were  set  and  the 
American  ships  filed  away  toward  the  English  vessels. 
It  was  half -past  seven  in  the  evening.  The  Bonhomme 
Richard  drew  within  range.  Dusk  was  settling  over 
the  water. 

The  American  sailors,  stationed  at  the  guns  behind 
the  high  bulwarks,  and  imbued  with  the  enthusiasm 
and  energy  of  their  intrepid  commander,  eagerly 
awaited  the  order  to  fire.  The  British  sailormen  were 
just  as  anxious  for  the  fray,  believing  that  the  worth- 
less American  ships  would  be  easy  prey  for  their  fine 
frigates. 

A  flash  of  flame,  followed  by  a  crash,  and  an  English 
broadside  had  opened  the  battle.  Broadside  after 
broadside  shattered  the  peaceful  quiet  of  the  autumn 
night. 

Three  of  the  American  ships  held  off  and  did  not 
take  part  in  the  l^attle,  leaving  the  brave  commander 
with  his  rotten  ships,  and  one  other  little  vessel  equally 
unfit,  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  fearful  fire  of  the  power- 
ful British  vessels. 

At  almost  the  first  broadside,  the  Bonhomme  Rich- 
ard's eighteen-pounders  burst,  spreading  death  and 
destruction  around  them.  Gun  after  gun  blew  up,  doing 
more  damage  to  the  Americans  than  the  English  shells 
wrought. 

With  her  guns  crippled,  unable  to  respond  with 
effect  to  the  storm  of  British  shot,  the  brave  captain 
realized  that  his  only  hope  of  victory  was  to  close  in 
on  the  Serapis  and  grapple  hand  to  hand  with  cutlass 
and  pistol. 

Up  in  the  rigging  of  the  Bonhomme  Richard  were 
agile  sailors,  and,  when  the  two  ships  came  together 
with  a  rasping  crash,  they  threw  their  grappling  irons 

—34— 


THE  FIRST  FLEET 


into  the  British  ship's  rigging  and  lashed  the  two 
vessels  together. 

Instantly,  a  line  of  furious  Americans,  led  by  their 
doughty  captain,  scrambled  on  to  the  decks  of  the  Eng- 
lish ship  and  a  fearful  struggle  followed  with  pike, 
cutlass  and  pistol.  The  English  commander  rallied 
his  men.  With  a  cheer,  he  drove  the  boarders  back 
on  to  the  deck  of  the  sinking,  shot-riddled  Bonhomme 
Richard. 

The  American  ship  was  now  in  a  fearful  condition. 
Her  rigging  was  hanging  in  bits  and  her  hull  was  a 
pulp.  Water  was  pouring  in  through  her  gashes,  flood- 
ing the  lower  decks.  The  American  flag  had  been  shot 
away,  but  the  British  colors  were  still  flying. 

The  British  captain  hailed  the  American  captain. 

"Have  you  struck  your  colors?"  he* asked. 

"I  have  not  begun  to  fight,"  was  the  defiant  reply 
of  the  brave  American,  and  with  renewed  courage-  the 
American  sailors  swept  over  the  side  of  the  Serapis, 
rushing  the  British  along  the  deck,  stubbornly  resisting 
every  inch,  down  the  hatchways. 

The  words  of  the  brave  commander  will  ever  thrill 
the  American,  as  they  thrilled  and  inspired  the*  almost 
defeated  American  sailors  in  that  memorable  moment 
and  sent  them  on  to  victory. 

The  English,  disheartened  by  the  heroic  and  daunt- 
less spirit  of  their  enemies,  with  aching  hearts  were 
forced  to  pull  down  the  King's  flag  and  surrender. 

The  havoc  wrought  in  the  action  was  fearful.  The 
English  decks  were  littered  with  the  bodies  of  the  dead 
and  wounded.  The  Bonhomme  Richard  was  shot  to 
pieces ;  her  rigging  was  a  mass  of  wreckage ;  her  hull 
was  riddled  like  a  sieve ;  her  torn  and  gashed  decks  were 
so  thickly  strewn  with  bodies  and  wreckage  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  the  sailors  could  find  a  place  to  walk. 

—35— 


HERO  TALES 


The  American  ship  was  wallowing  about  in  the  waves 
as  the  water  poured  through  the  holes  in  her  sides. 

The  captain  ordered  that  all  the  wounded  and 
prisoners  be  transferred  to  the  captured  English  ship. 
When  all  were  on  board  he  sailed  for  Holland  with  his 
prisoners,  while  his  own  ship  filled  with  water  and 
sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

It  was  some  years  later  that  the  captain,  who  had 
lost  his  ship  and  won  a  victory,  passed  away  in  poverty 
in  France. 

More  than  a  century  later,  grateful  citizens  of  the 
United  States  placed  his  remains  on  board  a  modern 
warship  and  conveyed  them  to  the  United  States, 
where,  with  great  military  pomp  they  were  interred  in 
the  National  cemetery.  Thus  was  tardy  honor  paid  to 
the  memory  of  the  great  naval  hero,  who  when  his  ship 
was  sinking  had  "just  begun  to  fight" — John  Paul 
Jones. 


"All  honor  to  our  flag,  for  which  our  fathers  fought  and  died; 
On  many  a  blood-stained  battlefield,  on  many  a  gory  sea, 
The  flag  has  triumphed,  ever  more  triumphant  may  it  be. 
And  since  again,  'mid  shot  and  shell,  its  folds  must  be  unfurled, 
God  grant  that  we  may  keep  it  unstained  before  the  world. 
All  hail  the  flag  we  love,  may  it  victorious  ever  fly, 
And  hats  ofC  along  the  line,  when  Freedom's  flag  goes  by." 


—36— 


THE   TALE   OF   THE   PHYSICIAN  WHO 
ADDED  THREE  STARS  TO  THE  FLAG 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  physician 
who  traveled  fourthousand  miles  through  six  months 
of  blizzard   and   hunger  to  add  three  stars  to  the  Amer- 
ican flag,  who  tracked  his  way  through  a  savage  wilderness  to 
give  Incalculable  riches,  greatness  and  glory  to  the  American   Union. 

IT  WAS  not  long  ago — indeed,  it  is  within  the 
memory  of  men  now  living — and  yet  the  Great 
Northwest  beyond  the  Rockies  was  little  known 
to  the  American  people.  That  sncli  a  wilderness 
could  ever  become  a  habitable  country  was  ridiculed  by 
the  public.  Statesmen  stood  on  the  floor  of  Congress 
and  declared  it  valueless  to  civilization. 

"It  is  not  worth  a  pinch  of  snuff ! ' '  declared  one. 

"It  is  useful  only  as  a  place  to  which  rogues  and 
scoundrels  can  be  banished,"  shouted  another. 

"I  thank  God  that  He  made  the  Rocky  Mountains 
an  impassable  barrier  to  a  country  as  irreclaimable  and 
barren  as  the  desert  of  Sahara,"  exclaimed  a  third, 
while  the  great  Daniel  Webster  was  for  bartering  it 
away  in  exchange  for  some  little  Canadian  fishing  con- 
cession, unaware  that  he  was  trading  an  empire  for  a 
mere  toy. 

It  was  while  this  discussion  was  agitating  states- 
men, that  two  men  from  the  East  created  a  sensation 
by  stating  that  they  intended  to  marry  and  take  their 
brides  to  this  barren  wilderness.    The  friends  of  the 


HERO  TALES 


brides  protested,  but  without  avail,  for  they,  too,  had 
become  interested  in  this  unexplored  domain,  and  were 
willing  to  cast  their  lot  in  its  wilds. 

It  was  in  1836  when  this  hazardous  wedding  trip 
engaged  the  curiosity  of  the  people.  The  grooms  were 
a  young  missionary  physician,  named  Marcus  Whit- 
man, and  his  friend,  also  a  missionary,  the  Reverend 
Henry  Spaulding.  Their  brides  were  young  women 
who  were  interested  in  the  Christianization  of  the 
world,  and  in  carrying  the  banner  of  American  civiliza- 
tion to  the  furthest  outposts  of  the  continent. 

It  was  many  months  later  when  the  first  message 
was  received  from  the  missionaries  to  the  Great  North- 
west. It  said  that  the  bridal  parties  had  arrived 
safely;  that  the  new  country  was  beautiful  beyond 
compare,  and  abundant  in  its  fruits  and  rich  bounties. 
They  had  taught  the  red  men  of  the  Northwest  to 
plough  and  plant,  and  three  hundred  acres  had  been 
cleared,  while  two  hundred  were  already  under  culti- 
vation, and  were  planted  with  grains  and  vegetables 
and  fruits.  Still,  practical  statesmen  would  not  believe 
that  the  experiment  would  be  successful,  for  they  were 
satisfied  that  no  seed  could  be  profitably  grown  in  that 
waste  and  mountainous  country. 

One  day  the  young  physician  of  the  wilderness  was 
ministering  to  the  Indians  and  traders  that  had  gath- 
ered at  the  post  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  when  he 
fell  into  discussion  with  a  young  Canadian  priest  who 
had  recently  come  from  civilization. 

*'Sir,"  said  the  priest,  ''have  you  heard  the  news?" 

''I  have  not,"  said  the  doctor;  "is  it  good  news?" 

' '  Your  country  is  to  turn  over  this  whole  domain  to 
the  British  government,  and  it  is  to  be  colonized  by  my 
own  Canadians." 

**Is  that  true?"  asked  the  doctor,  incredulously. 
—38— 


THE  PHYSICIAN 


*  *I  have  it  at  first  hand,"  said  the  priest.  "It  comes 
from  those  who  are  connected  with  your  own  govern- 
ment. The  agreement  is  called  the  Ashburton  Treaty. 
It  is  being  prepared  and  will  soon  be  signed." 

The  doctor,  who  loved  the  American  flag  as  he  did 
life  itself,  passed  thoughtfully  along  the  trail  to  his 
forest  home.  The  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  twi- 
light song  of  the  Oregon  robin  and  the  distant  howl  of 
the  wolf.  He  entered  his  cabin  with  determination  in 
his  face. 

"I  am  going  to  the  East,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  **I 
must  start  at  once!" 

*'When?"  asked  his  wife  in  surprise. 

''To-morrow,"  he  answered  firmly.  "My  country 
is  about  to  renounce  this  whole  rich  domain.  It  must 
not  be.    I  must  hurry  to  Washington!" 

It  was  on  the  second  day  of  October,  1842,  that 
Dr.  Whitman  bade  good-bye  to  his  beloved  ones,  and, 
with  General  Lovejoy  and  a  guide,  was  soon  scaling 
the  mountain  passes  that  led  toward  the  Southwest. 
The  heroic  journey  to  save  the  Great  Northwest  to  the 
American  flag  had  begun.  Four  thousand  miles  and  a 
long  winter  were  before  them.  Tribes  of  hostile 
Indians  drove  them  from  their  path  to  the  south; 
packs  of  wolves  set  upon  them ;  hunger  threatened  their 
lives ;  the  winter  storms  beset  them ;  snow  drifted,  until 
mountains  and  passes  became  impassable  barriers. 

One  night  as  they  traveled  ceaselessly,  not  daring  to 
lose  an  hour,  for  fear  that  the  fatal  treaty  might  be 
signed  before  the  four  thousand  miles  could  be  con- 
quered, a  terrific  snow  storm  fell  upon  them,  raging 
into  a  blinding  blizzard — and  the  travelers  became 
totally  lost.  The  courageous  doctor,  fearing  that  the 
end  was  near,  fell  to  his  knees  in  the  storm  and  prayed. 
He  knew  that  the  instinct  of  an  animal  was  generally 

—39— 


HERO  TALES 


safe,  so  he  turned  loose  the  old  pack  mule.  The  animal 
wandered  back  to  the  camp  where  they  had  rested  the 
night  before.  They  followed  him  and  here  they  waited 
until  the  storm  was  over. 

Starvation  now  threatened  them,  and  the  faithful 
mule  was  slain  to  keep  them  alive.  Then  famine  again 
faced  them,  and  they  were  forced  to  kill  and  devour  the 
dog  that  guarded  their  camp  while  they  rested  at  night. 

At  last,  General  Lovejoy  and  the  guide  refused  to 
go  any  farther. 

"The  journey  is  impossible,"  they  declared.  "It 
means  sure  death.  No  human  being  can  get  to  Wash- 
ington in  the  face  of  such  obstacles  as  these. ' ' 

And  so  it  was  that  at  Fort  Bent,  the  courageous 
doctor  bade  farewell  to  his  companions,  and  hastened 
on  into  the  wilderness  alone.  The  weeks  carried  him 
into  Utah ;  then  to  Colorado  and  New  Mexico  and  Indian 
Territory— and  finally  to  Kansas  City. 

Some  days  later,  a  man  in  the  costume  of  a  frontiers- 
man entered  the  city  of  St.  Louis.  There  was  a  look 
of  anxiety  on  his  face,  which  was  beaten  and  furrowed 
by  the  weather.  His  feet,  fingers  and  face  were  frozen 
purple. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  ask  only 
one  favor  of  you.  Is  the  Ashburton  Treaty  signed? 
Can  I  reach  Washington  before  Congress  adjourns?" 

It  was  early  in  March  of  1843.  The  great  Daniel 
Webster  was  Secretary  of  State.  President  Tyler, 
surrounded  by  his  Cabinet,  was  ready  to  sign  the  Ash- 
burton Treaty,  when  suddenly  before  them  stood  a 
strange  man  clothed  in  buckskin,  his  face  frost-bitten— 
a  veritable  man  of  the  woods. 

"Gentlemen,  stay  your  hand  or  lose  an  empire,"  he 
cried. 

The  words  came  like  molten  truth  from  his  heart. 
—40— 


THE  PHYSICIAN 


"But  it  lies  beyond  an  impassable  barrier,"  ven- 
tured the  great  Webster. 

' '  Sir, ' '  replied  the  man  who  had  come  four  thousand 
miles  through  six  months  of  terrible  winter  to  seize 
this  very  moment;  "You  have  been  deceived.  I  stand 
here  as  proof  against  that  statement!" 

The  wiseacres  leaned  forward,  deeply  impressed. 
The  words  of  the  man  before  them  carried  conviction. 

"There  is  no  barrier  there  that  civilization  cannot 
overleap,"  he  continued.  "I  have  taken  a  wagon 
across  these  mountains.  The  natural  boundaries  of 
our  young  republic  are  the  two  mighty  oceans  that 
wash  our  shores,  and  over  the  whole  domain,  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  there  should  be  but  one  flag." 

The  voice  of  the  woodsman  rang  true. 

"The  day  will  come,"  he  said,  "when  locomotives 
will  cross  those  mountains,  and  the  tide  of  civilization 
will  roll  over  them  and  spread  upon  the  golden  slopes 
beyond." 

"Sir,"  he  explained,  in  closing,  amid  the  profound 
silence  of  the  great  room.  "Stay  your  hand!  "What 
I  have  told  you  of  that  wonderful  country  is  God's 
truth.  I  have  imperilled  my  life;  I  have  come  these 
four  thousand  miles  simply  to  place  these  facts  before 
you  in  time.  All  that  I  ask  is  six  months  to  prove  my 
words.  Give  me  that  time,  and  I  will  lead  a  colony  of 
a  thousand  souls  across  those  plains  and  through  those 
mountain-gates  to  the  paradise  beyond." 

"Dr.  Whitman,"  said  President  Tyler,  rising,  and 
grasping  his  hand.  "I  admire  your  lofty  patriotism 
and  your  dauntless  spirit.  Your  frozen  hands  and  feet 
attest  the  truth  of  your  statements.  You  need  no 
further  credentials  before  this  body.  Your  request  is 
granted.  Oregon  is  not  yet  ceded  to  Great  Britain, 
and  I  do  not  think  it  will  be." 

—41— 


HERO  TALES 


It  was  not  long  after  that  a  pilgrimage,  the  like  of 
which  America  had  never  before  seen,  passed  over  the 
plains.  Here  were  a  thousand  men  and  women  and 
children.  Grazing  on  the  path  were  a  thousand  and 
five  hundred  cattle  and  horses.  Here  were  prairie 
schooners  laden  with  food  and  the  utensils  of  civiliza- 
tion. The  "Westward  ho!"  of  brave  Dr.  Whitman 
had  been  heard  by  the  American  people. 

*'0n  to  Oregon!"  was  the  cry. 

Three  new  stars  soon  shone  on  the  American  flag, 
and  the  untold  riches  of  three  new  states  increased  the 
wealth  of  the  imperial  union.  The  heroic  journey  of 
Marcus  Whitman  had  become  one  of  the  great  epochal 
events  of  our  history — four  thousand  miles  to  save  the 
region  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  to  plant  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  Northwest  Pacific  forever. 


"We  will  make  ye  the  mold  of  an  empire,  here  in  the  land  ye  scorn. 

While  ye  drowse  and  dream  in  your  well-housed  ease,  that  States  at 
your  nod  are  born. 

But  the  while  ye  follow  your  smooth-made  roads,  to  a  fireside  safe 
of  fears, 

Shall  come  a  voice  from  a  land  still  young,  to  sing  in  your  age- 
dulled  ears 

The  hero  song  of  a  strife  as  fine  as  your  fathers'  father  knew. 

When  they  dared  the  rivers  of  unmapped  wilds  at  the  will  of  a  bark 
canoe— 

"The  song  of  the  deed  in  the  doing,  of  the  work  still  hot  from  the 

hand; 
Of  the  yoke  of  man  laid  friendly-wise  on  the  neck  of  a  tameless 

laud. 
While  your  merchandise  is  weighing,  we  will  bit  and  bridle  and  rein 
The  floods  of  the  storm-rocked  mountains  and  lead  them  down  to 

the  plain; 
And  the   foam-ribbed,  dark-hued  waters,  tired   from  that  mighty 

race. 
Shall  lie  at  the  feet  of  palin  and  vine  and  know  their  appointed 

place; 
And  out  of  that  subtle  imion.  desert  and  mountain-flood. 
Shall  be  homes  for  a  nation's  choosing,  where  no  home  else  had 

stood." 


THE  TALE    OF    THE  VICTOR   IN    THE 
WORLD'S  DEEPEST  TRAGEDY 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  mighty  general 
who  came  to  the  rescue  of  his  nation  when  it  was  In 
its  greatest  peril  and  led  his  people  to  triumph  in  the  most 
terrific  struggle  that  mankind  has  ever  known.     It  is  the  tale  of 
the  world's  deepest  tragedy,  in  which   brother  fought  brother  in  battle. 

IT  WAS  in  1861 — the  year  is  on  tlie  lips  of  every 
American.     The  beat  of  the  drum  and  the  call 
of  the  bugle  were  heard  in  the  streets  of  every 
American  village.    The  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of 
marching  men  echoed  along  the  highways,  as  a  great, 
peace-loving  people  were  called  to  the  defense  of  their 
country. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  volunteers  was  a  man,  slightly 
under  the  medium  height,  but  with  an  impressive  mili- 
tary bearing.  The  call  of  the  bugle  had  awakened  in 
him  the  fires  of  his  youth,  when  at  twenty-one  years  of 
age  he  had  left  "West  Point  with  a  lieutenant's  commis- 
sion and  had  followed  the  flag  in  the  war  against 
Mexico,  where  his  bravery  had  brought  him  a  captain's 
honors. 

These  days  were  now  long  gone.  He  was  nearing 
the  age  of  forty,  and  for  some  years  had  been  engaged 
in  the  common  struggle  for  a  living  of  the  every-day 
American.  His  country's  peril  had  again  aroused  him, 
and  he  stood  in  the  line  as  a  volunteer.  His  erect, 
military  bearing,  however,  made  him  conspicuous,  and 

—43— 


HERO  TALES 


not  many  days  passed  before  lie  was  leading  the  citi- 
zen soldiers  from  Illinois  into  Kentucky. 

The  fate  of  the  nation  was  hanging  in  the  balance. 
The  advances  of  the  army  were  repulsed  by  the  strong 
fighting  forces  of  their  brother  adversaries.  The  days 
were  tense  with  excitement.  There  were  rumors  of 
severe  reverses,  and  but  little  news  that  could  bring 
hope  or  relief  to  the  nation  in  its  anxiety. 

It  was  in  this  critical  hour  that  a  message  came 
from  the  silence  of  Kentucky.  The  day  was  the  eighth 
of  February,  1862. 

''Forts  Henry  and  Donelson  have  been  taken.  Fif- 
teen thousand  Confederate  prisoners  have  been  cap- 
tured." 

The  first  brilliant  victory  of  the  national  arms  had 
been  won.  A  thrill  passed  over  the  country.  Thousands 
of  men  caught  the  inspiration  and  joined  the  ranks  of 
the  volunteers.  The  strains  of  the  national  anthem 
were  taken  up  along  the  line  and  new  courage  seemed 
to  inspire  the  fighting  forces. 

The  man  of  military  bearing,  who  had  led  his  men 
to  victory,  bowed  calmly,  but  spoke  no  word  as  the 
commission  of  major-general  of  volunteers  was 
awarded  him  for  his  service  to  his  country. 

The  terrific  combats  of  the  armies  in  the  East  over- 
whelmed the  American  people  and  for  a  time  little  was 
heard  from  the  quiet,  broad-shouldered  general  who 
was  sweeping  the  Mississippi  Valley  with  his  volun- 
teers.   Then  came  the  news : 

''Vicksburg  has  fallen.  The  key  to  the  South  has 
been  taken  by  storm. ' ' 

The  American  people  were  again  thrilled  by  the 
daring  of  a  military  exploit  by  which  forty  thousand 
men  had  in  twenty  days  marched  one  hundred  and 
eighty  miles  with  onlv  five  days'  rations,  crossed  the 

—44— 


THE  VICTOR 


Mississippi  Eiver,  fouglit  and  won  four  distinct  battles, 
captured  a  state  capital,  and  took  over  six  thousand 
prisoners — all  against  a  foe  sixty  thousand  strong. 

The  silent  leader  of  the  volunteers  had  now  come 
again  into  his  own.  His  fighting  spirit  had  brought 
a  nation's  recognition,  and  he  stood  at  the  head  of  his 
columns  wearing  the  epaulets  of  a  major-general  of  the 
regular  army,  and  commander  of  the  combined  armies 
of  the  West.  His  brave  men  were  on  the  verge  of  star- 
vation. Not  less  than  ten  thousand  horses  and  mules 
had  perished.  Undaunted,  he  urged  his  army  on  to 
victories,  greater  and  more  glorious  than  they  had  yet 
seen. 

"Hold  Chattanooga  at  all  hazards,"  he  telegraphed 
to  one  of  his  commanding  officers. 

''I  will  hold  the  town  until  we  starve,"  came  back 
the  reply. 

Then  in  quick  succession  came  the  news  of  Chicka- 
mauga,  the  greatest  battle  in  the  West,  and  the  battle 
above  the  clouds  at  Lookout  Mountain,  the  most  spec- 
tacular in  history.  The  hearts  of  the  American  people 
throbbed  in  exultation.  The  silent  man  again  bowed 
solemnly  and  spoke  no  word  as  the  rank  of  lieutenant- 
general  was  bestowed  upon  him,  and  he  was  hailed  as 
the  saviour  of  his  nation. 

It  was  early  in  March,  in  1864.  A  rousing  cheer 
went  up  from  tens  of  thousands  of  throats  as  the  silent 
general  rode  at  the  head  of  the  columns  against  Eich- 
mond,  the  capital  of  the  Confederacy.  He  was  now  in 
command  of  all  the  armies  under  the  American  flag. 

The  fighting  forces  seemed  imbued  with  new  life. 
The  strains  of  the  "Star  Spangled  Banner"  echoed 
through  the  camps.  The  half-starved  and  nearly  ex- 
hausted soldiers  felt  the  strength  of  some  unseen 
power.    Volleys  of  musketry  thundered  through  the 

—45— 


HERO  TALES 


battles  of  the  Wilderness,  and  in  the  virgin  forests  of 
pine  and  oak  nearly  thirty  thousand  brave  Americans, 
wearing  the  blue  and  the  gray,  gave  their  lives  to  their 
flag.  More  than  forty-three  thousand  more  were  left, 
dead  or  wounded,  on  the  field  at  Spottsylvania.  In  the 
solid  mass  of  lead  and  flame  in  the  drizzling  rain  at 
Cold  Harbor,  nearly  sixteen  thousand  more  brave  men 
fell  in  less  than  twenty  minutes. 

The  general  was  stubborn  and  immutable.  The 
destiny  of  two  nations  was  on  his  shoulders.  So  com- 
pletely had  the  great  conflict  of  western  civilization 
centered  in  him  that  his  own  life  was  now  the  pivot 
upon  which  swung  the  future  of  a  continent.  It  was 
during  these  fearful  days  that  a  message  which  aroused 
the  fighting  spirit  of  every  soldier,  passed  along  the 
lines. 

*  *  I  propose  to  fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes  all 
summer. ' ' 

This  determined  general,  in  his  terrible  onslaughts 
against  the  foe,  entirely  forgot  danger.  In  an  attempt 
to  lift  the  siege  of  Petersburg,  which  had  been  one  of 
the  longest  and  most  stubborn  in  the  annals  of  a  nation, 
he  tunneled  under  the  Confederate  lines  in  order  to 
blow  up  the  fortifications  with  a  charge  of  eight  thou- 
sand pounds  of  powder.  It  was  twenty  minutes  before 
five  on  the  morning  of  the  thirtieth  of  July,  in  1864, 
that  the  awful  earthquake  hurled  the  forts,  with  their 
men  and  arms,  into  the  air.  Into  the  smoke  of  the  ex- 
plosion charged  the  faithful  soldiers,  streaming  into 
the  crater  of  the  mine  and  up  the  slope  beyond,  bearing 
the  Stars  and  Stripes.  The  great  crater  seemed  to 
swallow  the  soldiers  like  the  mouth  of  a  beast.  They 
cringed  under  the  terrific  fire  of  the  foe  and  fell  back 
dazed,  line  after  line  being  mowed  down  by  the  on- 
slaught. 

—46— 


THE  VICTOR 


Somebody  had  not  obeyed  orders.  The  plan  of 
assault  had  not  been  properly  followed.  The  Con- 
federate batteries  were  firing  directly  into  the  crater 
of  that  pit,  which  had  become  a  veritable  cauldron  of 
death. 

At  this  moment,  an  officer  on  horseback  rode  rapidly 
to  the  front  and  into  the  fire  of  the  foe.  Throwing 
himself  quickly  from  his  horse,  he  rushed  forward  into 
the  choking  volumes  of  troops  that  were  massed  for  a 
charge  without  a  leader.  There  was  a  crash  of 
musketry  and  artillery.  The  officeri  'leaped  to  the 
parapet,  stood  in  the  front  of  the  breastworks,  and 
strode  along  the  shot-swept  front  between  the  firing- 
lines  of  the  two  armies.  It  was  the  figure  of  the  silent 
general.  Terrible  havoc  had  been  wrought,  but  he  had 
marshalled  the  fighting  forces  and  had  brought  them 
under  command. 

A  few  days  later  the  silent  general  was  in  his  head- 
quarters at  City  Point,  just  below  Richmond,  prepar- 
ing to  make  the  final  attack  on  the  stronghold  of  the 
Confederacy  and  strike  the  decisive  blow  in  the  war. 

Boom!  The  air  was  filled  with  smoke  and  flying 
debris.  The  general's  headquarters,  which  were  on  a 
bluff  over  the  James  Eiver,  were  shattered  by  a  terrific 
explosion.  Eighty  men  lay  killed  or  maimed.  The 
great  general  staggered  to  the  open  air. 

'*  An  infernal  machine,"  reported  one  of  the  officers. 
"It  is  an  attempt  upon  the  general's  life.  The  machine 
was  secreted  in  a  ship  of  ammunition  which  lay  directly 
under  the  bluff. ' ' 

The  general  listened  to  the  report  of  the  attack  on 
his  life,  but  made  no  remarks.  Without  his  knowledge 
a  body-guard  was  secretly  organized  to  watch  over 
him  day  and  night. 

Nine  months  of  the  most  daring  warfare  that  man- 
—47— 


HERO  TALES 


kind  has  ever  known,  now  followed.  Thirty  thousand 
lives  were  sacrificed  by  the  Federal  army  in  that  fear- 
ful siege.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
the  third  day  of  April,  in  1865. 

''Petersburg  has  been  evacuated!"  was  the  news 
that  thrilled  the  country  on  that  Sunday  morning. 

''Eichmond  is  burning!"  was  the  dispatch  that 
quickly  followed. 

As  the  Federal  forces  entered  Eichmond,  it  was  a 
scene  of  terrific  splendor.  The  explosion  of  maga- 
zines caused  the  earth  to  rock  and  tremble  as  with  the 
shock  of  an  earthquake.  Flames  were  leaping  from 
building  to  building  until  thirty  squares  were  ablaze, 
consuming  over  one  thousand  structures.  Prisoners 
were  liberated  from  the  penitentiary  and  the  torch  was 
applied  to  it.  Men,  women  and  children,  faint  from 
hunger,  fled  from  their  homes.  The  doors  of  the 
provision-depots  were  battered  down,  in  the  wild  re- 
sistance to  starvation.  The  clatter  of  the  horses  in 
the  streets,  added  to  the  tumult. 

But  the  fleeing  army  of  the  Confederacy  was  not 
now  to  escape.  The  silent  general  was  close  at  their 
heels  in  a  life-and-death  race.  The  brave  dead  were 
lying  in  heaps  along  the  road  for  seventy  miles. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  eighth  of  April,  in  1865. 
The  bugle  sounded  for  the  last  stand.  Suddenly,  a 
flag  of  truce  was  unfurled  to  the  air.  A  few  hours 
later  two  of  the  greatest  warriors  that  any  nation  has 
ever  known,  stood  face  to  face,  no  longer  enemies,  but 
as  arbiters  of  peace;  one  returned  broken-hearted  to 
private  life,  and  the  other,  the  volunteer  general, 
Ulysses  S.  Grant,  was  carried  in  triumph  to  the  capital 
of  his  nation,  to  receive  twice  in  succession,  the  highest 
gift  that  his  grateful  fellow-citizens  could  bestow,  the 
Presidency  of  the  United  States. 

—48— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    NAVAL    YOUTH 
WHO  DESTROYED  AN  IRONCLAD 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  naval  youth 
who  deliberately  plunged  into  danger  to  save  the 
navy  of  his  country,  who  left  his  connrades  to  perform  an 
heroic  duty  fronn  which  he  never  expected  to  return.    It  is  a  tale  of 
a  lad's  willingness  to  sacrifice  his  life  for  the  flag  that  waves  over  him. 

IT  WAS  in  the  year  of  1864.  The  Confederate 
''iron-clad"  gunboat,  Albemarle,  had  demoralized 
the  Union  navy  with  its  fleet  of  wooden  ships  of 
war.  The  Confederate  boat,  lined  as  it  was  with 
iron,  was  practically  impregnable  to  the  shell  from  the 
Union  ships,  and  could  run  alongside  of  them  and  throw 
her  terrible  broadsides  of  steel  into  them,  with  little  or 
no  damage  to  herself. 

This  condition  of  affairs  had  gone  on  for  some  time, 
and  the  Union  officers  were  completely  unnerved  by  the 
continual  loss  of  their  ships.  Something  had  to  be  done 
to  put  a  stop  to  the  depredations  of  the  Confederate 
boat,  or  else  the  sea  would  be  in  the  control  of  the 
South. 

The  'Albemarle  was  lying  in  the  Eoanoke  Eiver, 
about  eight  miles  from  its  mouth,  and  protected  from 
torpedo  attack  by  sentries,  who  were  stationed  on  the 
banks.  On  her  decks,  men  were  stationed  with  guns  to 
repel  an  attack  from  land.  Though  she  seemed  to  be 
thoroughly  guarded,  the  Confederates  did  not  relax 
their  watch. 

—49— 


HERO  TALES 


At  midniglit,  on  the  twenty- seventh  of  October, 
1864,  two  open  launches,  but  thirty  feet  long,  came  from 
the  open  sea  headed  directly  for  the  mouth  of  the  river 
and  its  formidable  defenders.  The  leading  boat  pre- 
sented a  curious  appearance. 

From  her  bow  there  extended  a  boom  about  fourteen 
feet  long,  reaching  out  over  the  water.  To  the  end  of 
this  long  yard  was  fastened  a  cigar-shaped  object  of 
steel,  much  in  appearance  like  an  immense  rocket.  In 
the  rear,  towed  by  the  leading  launch,  was  another  boat 
containing  a  few  sailor-men.  The  two  launches  plowed 
their  way  through  the  rolling  waves,  and  under  cover 
of  night,  rapidly  approached  the  river's  mouth,  where 
despite  the  vigilance  of  the  thousands  of  soldiers  on 
shore,  they  soon  passed  the  entrance,  and  were  on  their 
dangerous  course  up  the  river.  The  seven  men  in  the 
little  boat  strained  their  eyes  for  the  first  sign  of  hos- 
tility.    Absolute  silence  reigned  over  the  scene. 

Suddenly,  in  the  darkness,  a  big  black  shape  rose  as 
if  from  the  bottom  of  the  river.  The  little  boats  sheered 
off  around  the  obstacle.  It  was  the  sunken  wreck  of 
the  Soutlifield,  crowded  with  Confederate  pickets,  on 
the  lookout  for  just  such  an  expedition ;  yet,  though  the 
launches  passed  within  thirty  feet  of  the  wreck,  they 
were  not  discovered. 

Greatly  encouraged  by  their  good  fortune,  the  boats 
sped  on  up  the  river.  The  daring  men  were  now  near- 
ing  their  destination,  the  invincible  iron-clad,  Albe- 
marle. With  tense  bodies  and  bated  breath,  they 
crouched  low  in  the  launches,  for  just  ahead  of  them 
could  be  seen  the  dim  outlines  of  a  large,  low-lying  ship 
of  peculiar  shape,  which  they  knew  to  be  the  object  of 
iheir  search. 

The  voices  of  the  pickets  on  shore  were  plainl}^ 
audible  to  the  brave  men  in  the  boats.     They  felt  that  it 

—50— 


THE  NAVAL  YOUTH 


was  now  a  question  of  only  a  few  moments  before  their 
detection  must  occur.  Crouching  still  lower  in  the 
drizzling  rain  that  had  just  commenced  to  fall,  the  little 
band  of  men  waited  for  the  first  shout  telling  of  their 
discovery. 

I'oot  by  foot  they  crept  upon  the  huge  vessel. 
Then  out  of  the  night  there  came  a  cry!  They  were 
discovered ! 

Throwing  caution  to  the  winds,  they  put  on  full 
speed  and  rushed  at  the  vessel  with  terrific  speed.  They 
only  hoped  to  reach  the  side  of  the  iron-clad  and  place 
a  torpedo  and  explode  it  before  their  boat  should  be 
blown  up  under  them  by  the  guns  in  the  forts  on  shore 
and  the  cannon  of  the  Albemarle.  Another  call  came 
from  the  land,  but  it  was  unheeded  by  the  men  in  the 
launch,  intent  only  on  reaching  the  vessel  before  it 
should  be  too  late. 

Suddenly,  a  huge  bon-fire  blazed  up  onshore,  cast- 
ing its  light  over  the  water  and  throwing  into  bold 
relief  the  daring  little  group  of  men  in  the  attacking 
launches.  In  the  bow  of  the  foremost  boat,  with  cord 
in  hand,  stood  the  heroic  figure  of  a  twenty-two-year- 
old  lad,  Commander  William  Barker  Cushing,  leader 
of  the  daring  expedition.  With  deliberation  he  gave 
his  orders  in  low  tones. 

*'Back,"  he  cried,  for  just  in  front  but  a  few  feet 
from  the  prow  of  his  little  launch,  floated  great  logs  of 
cypress,  chained  together  and  held  in  position  by  booms 
from  the  side  of  the  iron-clad,  literally  enclosing  it  in 
a  pen. 

By  this  time,  the  guns  on  shore  and  on  the  Albemarle 
had  opened  fire,  and  were  hurling  fearful  loads  of 
grape  and  canister  at  the  courageous  men.  The  boats 
slowly  approached  the  barricade  in  the  midst  of  the 
terrible  rain  of  shot  and  shell.    Cushing  closely  exam- 

—51— 


HERO  TALES 


ined  the  logs.     Then  the  boat  drew  off  into  the  middle 
of  the  stream. 

Failure?  Never.  The  young  hero  did  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  Back  it  drew  for  the  distance 
of  a  hundred  yards,  and  then  for  an  instant  the  little 
boat  hung  motionless,  as  if  gathering  its  strength  for  a 
desperate  plunge.  The  soldiers  on  shore,  curiously 
watched  the  movements  of  the  daring  launch,  which  was 
lying  so  calmly  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  in  the  center 
of  the  rain  of  steel,  and  lighted  up  by  the  glare  from 
the  fire  on  shore.  Suddenly,  the  launch  dashed  forward, 
and  its  intent  was  plain  to  the  watching  men. 

''They  are  going  over  the  logs,"  was  the  cry. 

This  was  undoubtedly  the  intention  of  the  cour- 
ageous young  commander.  Gathering  speed  with  every 
foot  it  traveled,  the  little  launch  rushed  at  the  barricade 
and  met  it  with  a  crash.  The  logs  sullenly  gave  way. 
The  bow  of  the  boat  lifted  up,  the  propeller  thrashing 
the  water  furiously.  Throwing  their  weight  forward, 
the  men  forced  the  little  boat  over  the  slimy  logs,  and 
they  were  in  the  pen  with  the  doomed  Albemarle. 

The  shock  of  running  into  the  logs  had  greatly 
reduced  the  headway  of  the  light  launch,  and  the  focus 
of  all  the  fire  from  the  vessel  and  of  the  men  on  shore, 
it  slowly  moved  on  toward  the  iron-clad.  The  little 
boat  staggered  as  a  hundred-pound  charge  crashed  into 
its  side.  Another  shell  from  the  cannon  struck  her, 
and  she  careened  madly,  as  if  in  agony.  Men  were 
dropping  on  all  sides  of  the  brave  Gushing,  as  he  stood 
in  the  bow,  with  the  line  in  his  hand,  ready  to  place  the 
deadly  torpedo  under  the  side  of  the  Albemarle.  The 
sailors  on  the  Confederate  ship  fought  madly  to  drive 
off  these  fearless  men,  but  the  launch  was  soon  along- 
side, and  the  dauntless  Gushing  was  lowering  the  boom 
and  placing  the  torpedo  in  position.   He  pulled  the  cord 

—52— 


THE  NAVAL  YOUTH 


of  the  trigger.  A  tremendous  explosion  swallowed  up 
the  noise  of  the  Confederate  guns.  A  dense  mass  of 
water  shot  up  from  the  side  of  the  stricken  Albemarle, 
and  fell  with  tremendous  weight  full  upon  the  heroes. 

Gushing  found  himself  in  the  river.  Around  him 
the  water  was  spurting  up  as  the  enemy's  bullets  struck 
all  around  him.  He  dove  and  swam  under  water  until 
he  choked  for  breath,  and  was  forced  to  come  to  the 
surface.  The  shot  were  still  cutting  up  the  water  and 
Gushing  dove  again,  and  this  time  came  up  further  away 
from  the  dangerous  spot  where  the  Albemarle  sank. 

For  hours  he  continued  to  swim  down  the  river, 
greatly  hampered  by  his  water-soaked  clothing,  and 
with  his  blood  nearly  frozen  in  the  cold  water.  Finally, 
he  reached  a  place  to  land,  but,  utterly  exhausted  by  his 
struggles,  he  was  too  weak  to  drag  his  weary  body  up 
out  of  the  water.  He  lay,  sunk  in  the  mud  and  half 
covered  with  water,  until  daylight  came. 

All  day  long  he  struggled  through  the  terrible 
swamp,  to  the  fleet  twelve  miles  away.  Gapturing  a 
skiff  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  he  paddled  for  ten  succes- 
sive hours,  without  rest,  until  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
Union  picket-vessel,  the  Valley  City. 

His  faint  ''Ship  ahoy"  crossed  the  waters,  and  the 
vessel,  after  due  precautions  against  a  possible  ruse  of 
the  enemy,  came  to  his  assistance.  They  had  feared  at 
first  that  he  was  a  Gonfederate  sailor,  bent  on  blowing 
up  their  ship.  The  boat  of  the  patrol  cautiously 
approached  the  little  skiff,  and  found  the  unconscious 
body  of  the  heroic  Gushing  lying  prone  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  He  was  hurried  to  the  patrol.  When  it 
became  known  that  the  daring,  young  commander  had 
returned  safely  from'  his  successful  expedition,  cheer 
on  cheer  rang  from  the  entire  Union  fleet,  and  rockets 
were  sent  up  to  show  their  appreciation  of  his  daring. 

—53— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  MOTHER'S  LOVE 
FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  HER  CHILDREN 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  mother 
who  gave  her  life  to  the  savages  to  save  her  beloved  ones  from 
danger,  who   passed   through   a  "living   death"  to   protect  them 
from  harm,  but  whose  strong  faith  and  hope  conquered  the  world's 
greatest  grief  and   rose  triumphant  in  the   hour  of   deepest   darkness. 

WOMEN  are  heroic  by  instinct.  A  true 
mother  will  die  for  her  children,  and 
thousands  to-day  are  wearing  their  lives 
away  for  their  beloved  ones.  Mother- 
hood in  itself  is  heroism.  Every  man,  and  woman,  and 
child,  who  has  a  good  mother  looks  into  the  face  of  a 
heroine  who  has  many  times  faced  death  in  their  behalf, 
and  whose  conrageons  heart  and  protecting  love  can 
never  be  surpassed  even  in  this  great  world  of  noble 
deeds. 

In  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  there  stands  to-day, 
a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  first  American 
mother  whose  heroism  for  the  sake  of  her  children  has 
been  immortalized. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  America  was  a  savage  land. 
The  Great  West  was  an  unknown  jungle  of  wild  beasts 
and  wilder  men.  A  few  brave  families  were  scattered 
along  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  while  the  fathers  were 
felling  the  forests  to  make  way  for  civilization,  the 
women  were  left  to  guard  their  homes  against  the 
Indians. 

—54— 


THE  MOTHER'S  LOVE 


It  was  the  sixteenth  of  March,  away  back  in  1697. 
Hannah  Dustin  was  alone  in  her  rude  home  in  the 
wilderness  with  her  seven  children,  and  a  nurse,  Mary 
Neff,  who  was  caring  for  the  mother,  and  a  week-old 
baby. 

Suddenly  there  was  the  weird  sound  of  stealthy 
feet ;  then  the  shriek  of  women  and  children ;  then  the 
whoop  of  the  Indians  rang  through  the  settlement,  as 
firebrand  and  tomahawk  flashed  in  the  light.  Mothers 
grasped  their  little  ones  to  their  breasts  and  fled  for 
safety,  only  to  be  stricken  in  death  by  the  brutal  hand 
of  the  savage.  Women  and  children  fell  in  pools  of 
blood  until  the  village  was  strewn  with  the  bodies  of 
forty  slain. 

Thomas  Dustin,  the  father  of  the  seven  children, 
was  at  work  in  the  fields  when  the  noise  of  the  onslaught 
reached  his  ears.  He  threw  down  his  implements  and 
rushed  to  his  home,  thinking  only  of  the  helpless 
condition  of  his  family  and  determined  to  take  them  to 
safety,  if  possible.  Almost  overcome  by  the  danger 
that  threatened  them,  father  Dustin  shouted  to  his 
children : 

''Run  to  the  garrison,  mother  will  come  soon." 

The  little  ones  fled  down  the  road  in  terror.  He 
realized  that  his  children  were  not  safe  on  the  road 
alone,  but  that  his  beloved  wife,  if  left  behind  un- 
protected, would  fall  a  victim  to  the  cruelty  of  the  sav- 
ages. Mother  Dustin,  having  only  the  welfare  of  her 
family  at  heart,  pleaded  with  him  to  go  with  them. 
"Don't  wait  for  me,"  she  said  calmly.  "Mount  the 
horse  and  protect  the  children." 

Father  Dustin  seized  his  guns  and  ammunition. 
Then  he  hesitated  a  moment  and  bade  his  wife  goodbye, 
believing  that  this  was  the  last  time  that  he  would  see 
her  and  the  tender  baby  that  she  held  to  her  breast. 

—55— 


HERO  TALES 


He  mounted  his  horse  and  was  soon  in  pursuit  of 
his  fleeing  children.  Down  the  road  he  overtook  them, 
unharmed  but  bitterly  frightened.  He  gathered  them 
about  him,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  upon  all  the  ways 
of  approach.  They  had  gone  quite  a  distance  before 
there  were  any  signs  of  danger.  Suddenly,  his  heart 
stood  still.  The  savage  marauders  were  on  his  trail. 
Through  the  forest  trees  he  could  see  them  approach- 
ing and  closing  in  upon  him. 

The  children  clung  tightly  to  him.  His  impulse  was 
to  take  one  of  them  and  make  a  dash  to  safety,  but, 
maddened  with  grief  and  hatred,  he  determined  to  save 
them  all  or  die  with  them.  It  was  the  heroism  of  father- 
hood, as  his  wife's  had  been  the  heroism  of  motherhood. 

The  desperate  man  fought  his  way  down  the  road 
with  the  fury  of  a  wild  beast  protecting  its  young.  At 
last,  the  shelter  of  the  garrison  was  reached  and  the 
children  were  safe. 

Father  Dustin's  only  thought  now  was  of  the  mother 
of  the  children.  He  left  the  little  ones  in  their  shelter 
and  hastened  back  to  the  spot  where  he  had  said  good- 
bye to  his  wife  and  babe.  Alas,  he  was  too  late !  The 
home  was  in  ruins. 

' '  Mother !  Mother ! "  he  called. 

But  there  was  no  response. 

Before  the  echoes  of  the  horse's  hoofs  had  died 
away,  as  he  had  left  with  the  children,  the  house  had 
been  surrounded  by  the  enemy  and  mother  Dustin 
dragged  from  her  bed.  Thinking  that  she  would  save 
her  young,  she  pressed  it  to  her  breast.  The  heartless 
Indians,  fearing  that  she  might  have  one  little  source 
of  comfort,  snatched  the  infant  from  her  arms  and, 
before  her  eyes,  threw  it  cruelly  against  a  tree.  Heart- 
broken and  nearly  crazed  by  grief,  the  mother  was  led 
away  to  leave  her  helpless  baby  to  die. 

—56— 


THE  MOTHER'S  LOVE 


For  days  she  inarched  northward  with  the  Indians, 
who  for  some  mysterious  reason  spared  her  life. 

When  she  had  recovered  from  the  exhausting 
journey,  she  found  herself,  with  the  faithful  nurse, 
Mary  Neif,  captive  in  an  Indian  family,  consisting  of 
two  men,  seven  children  and  three  women.  With  other 
white  prisoners,  they  soon  started  again  on  a  long 
march  to  an  Indian  village  many  miles  distant.  Sick- 
ening scenes  of  devastation  and  slaughter  along  their 
route,  made  their  hearts  bleed.  Many  of  the  captives 
dropped  by  the  wayside,  overcome  by  fatigue  and  sick- 
ness. The  savages,  angered  by  their  weakness,  and 
fearing  that  it  was  a  white  man's  scheme  to  escape, 
murdered  them,  as  they  fell  on  their  hands  and  knees, 
begging  for  mercy. 

At  an  island,  six  miles  above  where  the  present 
Concord,  New  Hampshire,  is  located,  the  party  of  cap- 
tives halted.  They  had  then  journeyed  one  hundred 
and  fifty  miles.  Mother  Dustin  and  Mrs.  Neif  were 
the  only  white  persons  left  in  the  party,  except  a  young 
boy  of  English  descent,  named  Samuel  Leonardson, 
who  had  been  with  the  Indians  for  a  period  of  several 
years.  Because  of  his  extreme  youth  and  apparent 
docility,  he  was  regarded  by  the  savages  as  harmless 
and  was  trusted  to  a  very  great  extent. 

Mother  Dustin  grieved  for  her  children.  At  first, 
she  would  sorrow  openly,  and  at  such  times  tomahawks 
were  swung  over  her  head  and  her  life  was  threatened. 
She  did  not  care  to  live,  except  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her 
beloved  ones  again. 

Heroic  Mother !  While  her  body  was  forced  to  sub- 
mission, her  mind  was  clear  and  alert  and  she  was  ever 
on  the  watch  for  a  means  to  escape. 

Her  pity  was  directed  especially  to  the  young  boy. 
She  sought  his  company  and  won  his  confidence.    She 

—57— 


HERO  TALES 


learned,  that,  although  trusted  and  well  treated,  he  held 
a  secret  longing  in  his  heart  that  some  day  he,  too, 
might  escape.  Pier  motherly  heart,  grieving  for  her 
own  dear  children,  went  forth  in  tenderness  to  this 
captive  lad.  "If  I  can  do  nothing  else,"  she  thought, 
' '  I  can  set  him  free ! ' ' 

She  directed  Samuel  to  get  certain  information  from 
their  keepers  in  a  quiet  way  so  that  he  might  not  be 
suspected.  She  told  him  to  ask  where  the  fatal  blow 
must  be  struck  on  the  head  with  a  tomahawk.  This  he 
did  and  the  instruction  was  given  without  the  least 
suspicion.  The  boy  was  cheered  again  with  hopeful- 
ness and  carried  the  news  secretly  to  Mrs.  Dustin. 

At  night,  when  the  camp-fires  were  glowing,  sending 
the  rays  of  their  warm  light  into  the  dense  blackness 
of  the  forest,  poor  mother  Dustin  would  sit  mournfully 
among  the  savages  and  hope  vainly  that  the  light  and 
smoke  from  the  fires  would  beckon  some  one  to  their 
rescue.  Then  the  hopelessness  of  it  all  would  dawn 
upon  her,  but  her  stout  heart  refused  to  give  up  its 
dream. 

"I  will!"  she  resolved.  "I  will  live  and  be  free! 
If  my  dear  ones  are  alive,  I  will  soon  be  with  them !" 

They  had  gone  so  far  on  their  journey,  and  were  so 
far  away  from  any  settlement,  that  the  savages  had  no 
fear  that  their  white  captives  would  escape.  They 
knew  also  that  they  were  beyond  pursuit. 

It  was  late  at  night.  The  warriors  slept  peacefully 
by  the  camp-fire  with  their  weapons  beside  them  ready 
for  instant  use.  No  guard  was  on  duty.  The  camp-fire 
had  died  away  into  embers.  Mother  Dustin  glanced 
hurriedly  about  her.  She  leaned  a  moment  on  her  el- 
bow as  she  lay  on  the  ground.  The  least  sound  might 
awaken  the  sleeping  Indians  and  mean  instant  death 
for  her. 

—58— 


THE  MOTHER'S  LOVE 


Three  tomahawks  lay  near  by.  She  crept  to  the 
side  of  her  nurse  and  then  to  the  boy  and  handed  each 
a  weapon.  They  understood.  The  stroke  of  freedom 
was  at  hand.  There  was  not  a  moment  to  parley  with 
fate.  Deep  sank  the  deadly  tomahawks  into  the  skulls 
of  the  slumbering  warriors.  Three  of  the  savages  who 
had  brought  so  much  suffering  to  these  white  people 
lay  dead  without  a  groan.  Again  the  tomahawks  fell. 
Again  three  bodies  lay  lifeless.  Ten  red  men  were 
sleeping  their  last  sleep  when  mother  Dustin  and  her 
comrades  fled  into  the  night.  Ony  one  squaw  and  a 
child  escaped  into  the  forest  to  tell  the  tale  of  a  white 
woman's  revenge. 

Mother  Dustin,  with  renewed  strength  and  courage, 
led  Mrs.  Neff  along  the  trail  through  the  forest.  The 
way  was  long  and  toilsome.  Many  times  they  were 
almost  overcome  with  fatigue  and  hunger,  but  realizing 
that  the  possibility  of  reaching  her  loved  ones  again 
was  not  altogether  hopeless,  they  fought  off  all  hard- 
shijjs  with  courageous  hearts. 

A  few  days  later  there  was  a  tremor  of  excitement 
in  the  settlement. 

"Hannah  Dustin  has  come  home!"  was  the  news 
that  passed  through  the  town.  ''And  she  bears  around 
her  waist  the  scalps  of  ten  red  men!" 

The  neighbors  hailed  her  as  though  she  had  re- 
turned from  the  dead. 

She  clasped  her  little  ones  in  her  arms  and  the  tears 
of  a  mother's  joy  sweetened  their  soft  cheeks  as  she 
poured  out  her  love  for  them. 

Hannah  Dustin  is  the  first  white  American  heroine 
to  be  honored  by  a  monument ;  but  this  honor  is  due  to 
her  memory,  for  her  wonderful  courage  and  ability; 
she  sowed  such  terror  in  the  hearts  of  the  savages,  who, 
it  was  said,  were  planning  another  massacre  of  the 

—59— 


HERO  TALES 


whites,  that  the  other  members  of  the  tribe  feared  that 
a  white  woman  was  a  spirit  of  revenge,  that  would 
bring  a  curse  upon  them. 

The  heroism  of  Hannah  Dustin  was  the  heroism  of 
a  mother's  heart.  And  mothers'  hearts  are,  after  all, 
what  the  sweetness  of  the  world  is  made  from.  There 
are  many  Hannah  Dustins  to-day,  but,  thanks  to  civili- 
zation and  Christianity,  the  call  of  duty,  although  it  is 
and  always  must  be  hard,  does  not  often  now  require 
such  mighty  sacrifices  as  in  those  old,  primitive  days. 


*'The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  and  wonder, 
And  bravely  spealis  the  cheering  word. 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle. 

"The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blessed, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  liDow  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor!" 


—60— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  GRIM  FIGHTER  AND 
THE  THIRTY-EIGHTH  PSALM 


This  is  the  tal6  of  a  grim  fighter 
who  ied  his  men  into  the  valley  of  death,  and,  when 
helplessly  wounded,  calmly  sat  and  directed  the  battle.    It  is  a 
tale  of  self-control   and   repose  in  the   hour  of  affliction,  in  which 
the  old  warrior  called  for  his  Bible  and  died  with  its  words  on  his  lips. 

IT  WAS  in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  back  in  1777.  The 
Tories  and  Indians  were  devastating  the  homes 
of  the  American  patriots.  Down  the  valley  swept 
St.  Leger,  with  his  strange  army  under  the 
British  flag,  loyalist  Tory  and  aborigine — 1,500  strong 
— to  join  forces  with  General  Burgoyne,  who  was  on  his 
way  down  the  Hudson  from  the  northern  lake  region, 
cutting  the  colonial  forces  in  halves  so  that  each  division 
could  be  fought  separately  and  forced  to  surrender. 
A  brilliant  plan  of  warfare  had  been  conceived. 

It  was  the  sixth  day  of  August.  The  Americans, 
who  had  been  rallied  from  the  farms,  with  a  few  militia- 
men, half-trained  and  poorly  armed,  were  gathered 
under  the  command  of  General  Nicholas  Herkimer,  a 
quaint  Dutch-American,  who  some  years  before  had 
fought  himself  under  a  British  ensign  against  the 
French  and  Indians.  As  they  moved  down  the  valley, 
they  heard  the  rumors  of  massacres,  and  that  the  Brit- 
ish were  offering  the  Indians  twenty-five  dollars  for 
every  scalp  of  an  American  patriot  that  they  could 
bring  into  camp,  regardless  of  age  or  sex. 

—61— 


HERO  TALES 


The  brave  patriot  farmers  reached  Whitesboro.  A 
courier  hurried  to  Fort  Stanwix  to  notify  its  com- 
mander, Peter  Gansevoort,  of  their  approach  and  to 
summon  his  garrison  to  their  relief. 

''Fire  your  cannon  three  times,"  said  the  message, 
"to  inform  us  when  your  garrison  starts." 

The  rumors  of  massacre  lay  heavily  upon  the  mind 
of  old  General  Herkimer.  As  he  moved  his  men  slowly 
down  the  valley,  a  friendly  Indian  brought  him  the 
warning  that  an  ambush  had  been  prepared  ahead.  He 
therefore  called  a  halt.  His  younger  lieutenants  were 
impatient  at  their  commander's  conservatism,  and 
intimated  in  their  anger  that  he  might  still  be  friendly 
to  the  British  King. 

The  old  warrior,  who  spoke  broken  English,  was 
seized  with  rage. 

' '  The  blood  be  on  your  own  heads,  then, ' '  he  shouted, 
in  hardly  intelligible  English.     ' '  Vorwaerts. ' ' 

And  on  to  the  attack  the  column  marched,  without 
waiting  for  the  three  cannon  shots  from  the  fort,  until 
they  were  two  miles  west  of  Oriskany  and  passing 
through  a  ravine.  The  advance  guard  was  moving 
along  without  scouts.  Suddenly,  from  both  sides  came 
the  awful  war-cry  of  the  Indians,  and  a  deadly  fire  from 
rifles.  In  front,  a  force  of  red-coated  British  regulars 
were  massed  on  the  firing  line.  The  American  militia- 
men fell  back.  The  assault  was  one  of  the  most  atro- 
cious in  the  annals  of  warfare,  the  patriots  being 
scalped  as  they  took  refuge  behind  the  logs  and  trees. 
The  rear  guard  was  cut  off  and  with  it  the  supply  train 
and  the  food. 

After  the  manner  of  men  of  iron-will  and  courage, 
old  Nicholas  Herkimer  rallied  a  few  straggling  men, 
and  stormed  the  hills  occupied  by  the  proud  British 
rangers.    A  shot  from  a  rifle  went  through  the  gen- 

—62— 


THE  THIRTY-EIGHTH  PSALM 


eral's  leg  and  his  liorse  fell  from  under  him,  but  the 
serenity  of  the  old  general  was  undisturbed.  He  or- 
dered the  saddle  taken  off  his  horse  and  placed  against 
a  tree.  Seated  there,  he  calmly  lit  his  old  black  clay- 
pipe — and  went  on  directing  the  battle. 

The  Americans  now  took  to  the  trees  and  other  posi- 
tions of  advantage,  and  opened  warfare  in  true  Indian 
fashion.  The  Indians,  in  their  savage  hunt  for  scalps, 
molested  only  those  who  were  within  easy  reach.  The 
Tories  came  hurrying  on  from  the  village,  eager  for  the 
fray,  and  the  sight  of  their  neighbors  in  the  guise  of 
enemies  aroused  them  into  greater  fury.  Then, 
mingling  with  the  yell  of  the  savages,  and  the  shrieks 
of  the  massacred,  came  the  sound  of  three  cannon  shots, 
the  signal  for  the  advance  of  the  garrison  from  the  fort ! 

But  old  Herkimer  still  sat  beneath  his  tree,  calmly 
smoking.  Watching  the  battle  as  best  he  could  from 
his  post,  he  witnessed  the  varying  fortunes  of  that 
awful  combat;  directing  assistance  first  to  one  part, 
then  to  another.  Grim,  determined,  sputtering  in  his 
native  German  and  again  in  English,  hard  to  under- 
stand, he  gave  his  orders  with  composure  and  courage. 
One  of  the  young  American  officers,  who  had  forced  the 
battle,  was  dead ;  another  was  desperately  wounded. 

''Your  wound.  General f"  inquired  a  young  officer, 
coming  up  for  orders. 

"Aich,  'sist  nichts,''  he  growled,  and,  then  remem- 
bering that  his  aid  could  not  understand,  he  shouted, 
' '  Notting,  I  tell  you ;  yust  notting ! ' ' 

Then  pulling  away  at  his  pipe,  he  ordered :  "I  mean 
take  dat  lot  of  fellows  from  behind  dat  rock  dere  and 
order  dem  up  on  de  right  vere  dem  red  coats  is  making 
such  troubles  for  'em." 

But  the  gathering  lines  in  the  old  general's  face  told 
their  own  sad  story.    The  wound  in  his  leg  was  slowly 

—63— 


HERO  TALES 


sapping  his  life  away.  For  six  hours  the  brave  old 
man  sat  there  beneath  his  tree  on  his  saddle,  cheering 
on  the  stricken  forces. 

A  shout  went  up  from  the  battlefield.  The  smoke 
cleared  away.  Over  the  hills  the  Indians  and  Tories 
were  fleeing  in  terror.  The  Americans  held  the  field. 
St.  Leger,  and  his  warfare  of  horror  against  women 
and  babies  was  meeting  his  first  stubborn  resistance. 

''Thank  Got,"  muttered  the  iron-hearted  Nicholas 
Herkimer,  as  he  was  carefully  lifted  by  his  soldiers  and 
carried  to  his  home,  thirty-five  miles  away. 

"Your  leg  must  be  amputated,"  remarked  the 
surgeon. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  modern  anesthesia  for 
lessening  pain.  The  old  general  called  for  his  pipe  and 
puffed  great  clouds  of  gray  smoke  as  the  wounded  leg 
was  removed.  Ten  days  later,  a  hemorrhage  issued 
from  the  unhealed  limb.  The  old  warrior  had  seen 
death  too  often  to  fear  it  among  his  family  and  friends. 
As  his  life  ebbed  away,  he  gathered  his  beloved  ones 
about  him  and  called  for  the  family  Bible.  Opening  it, 
he  turned  to  the  thirty-eighth  psalm : 

"0  Lord,  rebuke  me  not  in  thy  wrath,  neither 
chasten  me  in  thy  hot  displeasure — for  mine  iniquities 
are  gone  over  my  head ;  as  an  heavy  burden  they  are  too 
heavy  for  me — I  am  feeble  and  sore-broken — Lord,  all 
my  desire  is  before  thee  and  my  groaning  is  not  hid 
from  thee;  my  heart  panteth,  my  strength ." 

The  voice  grew  slower,  weakened,  and  then  ceased. 
Nicholas  Herkimer  was  with  the  greater  army  in  the 
beyond — the  soldiers  of  eternity.  On  the  ground  where 
he  fought  so  valiantly  for  liberty,  now  stands  his  monu- 
ment. There  he  sits  in  bronze,  pipe  in  hand,  his  right 
arm  stretched  out  in  command,  pointing  the  way  to  vic- 
tory as  he  did  on  that  memorable  day  in  1777. 

—64— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN 
BOYS  WHO  OVERPOWERED  A  FORT 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  mountaineer 
who  led  his  comrades  against  a  British  stronghold 
under  the  darkness  of  night  and  forced  them  to  surrender 
without  firing  a  shot.     It  is  a  tale  of  victory  in  war  without  the 
clash  of  steel  or  the  flame  of  a  gun,  a  tale  of  overwhelming  courage. 

IT  WAS  in  the  years  when  King  George  of  England 
ruled  over  the  American  colonies.  The  people  of 
New  York  were  in  dispute  with  the  people  of  New 
Hampshire  over  the  boundary  line.  The  matter 
had  been  referred  to  the  King  and  he  had  decided  in 
favor  of  New  York.  The  boundary  war  waged  for 
years,  the  people  of  New  York  trying  in  vain  to  eject 
the  New  Hampshire  settlers,  until  the  irate  Governor 
Tryon  offered  a  reward  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  the  currency  of  those  times,  for  the  capture  of 
the  leader  of  the  settlers,  who  called  themselves  the 
' '  Green  Mountain  Boys. '  * 

This  mountaineer  captain  was  a  giant  in  strength, 
tall,  and  strong  as  a  lion. 

''I'll  give  fifty  pounds,"  he  retaliated  when  he 
heard  of  the  price  on  his  head,  ''for  the  capture  of 
Governor  Tryon." 

The  dispute  was  reaching  a  crisis,  when  word  of 
the  battle  of  Lexington  came  to  the  mountaineers,  the 
forerunner  of  the  great  struggle  for  American  inde- 
pendence.   Immediately  discarding  their  private  quar- 

—65— 


HERO  TALES 


rel,  the  "Green  Mountain  Boj^s"  armed  and  prepared 
to  take  np  the  common  cause  of  their  country. 

On  the  shores  of  Lake  George,  the  present  boundary- 
line  between  New  York  and  New  England,  was  situated 
the  fort  of  Ticonderoga,  garrisoned  by  English  soldiers. 
The  colonists  were  in  need  of  ammunition.  The  daring 
leader  of  the  "Green  Mountain  Boys"  determined  to 
capture  the  fort  and  its  great  store  of  powder  and 
arms. 

It  was  in  the  year  1775.  They  had  reached  the 
shores  of  Lake  George  and  were  about  to  cross  the  lake 
to  attack  the  fort.  An  officer,  on  horseback,  galloped 
from  the  woods  into  the  ranks  of  the  raiders. 

"I  have  been  appointed  by  the  Governor  of  Massa- 
chusetts to  command  this  expedition, ' '  he  announced. 

"We  are  able  to  command  our  own  expedition," 
replied  the  raiders,  and,  loyal  to  their  gallant  young 
giant  who  led  them,  the  "Green  Mountain  Boys"  re- 
fused to  obey  the  new  commander,  and  pushed  on 
across  the  lake  to  attack  the  English. 

On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  of  May,  there  was  a 
gray  mist  rising  from  the  lake,  as  the  "Green  Mountain 
Boys"  approached  the  fort.  Up  the  hill  they  crept. 
They  could  see,  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  the  English 
flag  bravely  flying. 

In  the  lead  of  the  courageous  patriots,  was  the 
young  giant.  Along  the  line  of  eighty-three  men, 
passed  the  low-toned  order,  "Advance." 

With  a  rush,  they  had  crossed  the  intervening  space 
and  stood  before  the  gate  of  the  fort.  A  sentry  in  a 
sally-port  snapped  his  musket  at  the  invaders  and 
turned  and  fled. 

The  gate  flew  back  with  a  crash,  and  the  patriots 
dashed  into  the  fort.  Far  in  advance  was  the  young 
giant,  rushing  for  the  commanding  officer's  quarters. 

—66— 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS 


Meeting  with  but  feeble  resistance  from  the  terrified 
British,  he  reached  the  door.  Flinging  it  wide  open, 
he  cried :    ' '  Surrender. ' ' 

"By  whose  authority?"  stammered  the  dazed  of- 
ficer, springing  up  from  his  seat. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Great  Jehovah  and  the  Conti- 
nental Congress, ' '  thundered  the  leader  of  the  ' '  Green 
Mountain  Boys. ' ' 

The  surprised  officer  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears, 
l)ut  the  "Green  Mountain  Boys"  crowded  into  the 
room,  and  he  surrendered  the  fort  and  his  sword. 

The  daring  young  American  giant,  and  his  band  of 
inountaineers,  had  surprised  and  captured  the  fort 
without  firing  a  single  shot.  They  found  large  quan- 
tities of  powder,  shot  and  arms,  which  the  colonists 
needed  sorely.  They  also  gained  the  key  to  the  secret 
route  to  and  from  Canada,  which  was  later  to  become 
a  factor  in  the  long  war. 

The  daring  of  the  ' '  Green  Mountain  Boys ' '  startled 
the  British  and  thrilled  the  Americans.  Their  com- 
mander was  sent  to  Canada  on  a  dangerous  mission, 
requiring  great  courage  and  judgment,  and  while  en- 
gaged in  an  attempt  to  take  Montreal,  he  was  captured 
and  sent  to  England  as  a  prisoner  of  war.  He  was 
later  returned  to  this  country  and  allowed  his  liberty 
on  parole.  After  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  state. 

Generous  and  frank,  loyal  to  his  country  and  true 
to  his  friends,  he  exerted  a  powerful  influence  on  the 
earty  history  of  the  great  Commonwealth  of  Vermont, 
and  helped  to  make  it  the  rich  and  independent  state 
that  it  is  to-day — this  young  giant  of  brawn  and  brain, 
Ethan  Allen. 


—67- 


THE   TALE    OF   THE  VIRGINIAN   WHO 
HEARD  THE  CALL  OF  HIS  HOME-LAND 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  Virginian 
who  was  forced  to  choose  between  his  home  and  his  country 
—and  chose  his  home.     It  is  the  tale  of  a  great  heart  and  a  clear 
conscience  that  rose  above  defeat  and  crowned   him  with  a  nobility 
of  character  greater  than  the  victories  of  war— the  triumph  of  peace. 

IT  WAS  down  in  old  Virginia,  on  the  nineteenth  day 
of  January  in  the  year  1807.    The  old  Southern 
plantation  was  full  of  joy.     The  negroes  came 
running  from  the  cabin  to  the  old  manor-house, 
and  gathered  about  the  door,  bringing  gifts  of  cakes 
and  trinkets. 

"Dey's  a  new  massa  on  de  plantation."  Their 
voices  echoed  from  cabin  to  cabin.  *'He  was  done  b'on 
dis  mornin'.'* 

In  the  mansion,  an  old  black  mammy  crooned  to  a 
little  child  in  her  arms,  while  the  banjoes  twanged  from 
the  cabins  and  negro  melodies  floated  out  on  the  cool, 
winter  air. 

The  heir  of  the  plantation  was  a  handsome  lad,  in 
whose  veins  flowed  the  blood  of  generations  of  states- 
men and  warriors,  who  had  helped  to  lay  the  foundation 
upon  which  the  nation  is  built.  The  master  of  the 
plantation,  the  father  of  the  lad,  was  a  patriot  in  whose 
heart  there  still  burned  the  fires  of  1776.  In  the 
American  Eevolution,  he  had  been  a  bold  and  dashing 
horseman  under  the  flag  of  Independence. 

—68— 


THE  VIRGINIAN 


The  years  naturally  found  him  following  in  the  foot- 
steps of  his  fathers,  and,  at  eighteen  years  of  age,  he 
stood  in  the  ranks  at  West  Point  wearing  the  coat  of 
blue.  He  was  a  manly  fellow,  erect  and  stately  in  figure, 
with  a  face  so  open  and  frank  that  it  won  the  admiration 
of  both  cadets  and  officers.  His  soldierly  bearing  and 
high  sense  of  honor  brought  him  .rapid  promotion 
through  the  various  grades,  until  at  his  graduation  he 
was  adjutant  of  the  corps.  As  the  years  passed,  little 
was  heard  of  the  men  who  were  serving  their  country. 
It  was  enjoying  the  blessings  of  peace. 

The  war  with  Mexico  broke  the  long  silence.  The 
ancient  civilization  of  the  Spanish  resented  the  trend 
of  American  progress.  The  moment  for  the  *' survival 
of  the  fittest"  had  come.  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
of  the  republic,  on  the  battle-ground  of  two  civiliza- 
tions, stood  the  heir  of  that  old  Southern  plantation, 
now  a  man  of  mature  years,  defending  the  flag  that  he 
loved.  Side  by  side  with  comrades,  whom,  in  later 
years,  fate  was  to  make  his  foes,  he  fought  gallantly 
for  his  country.  The  honors  of  the  army  were  bestowed 
upon  him,  and  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  colonel. 

Shortly  after  the  close  of  the  war,  he  was  chosen  as 
the  best-fitted  man  in  the  army  for  the  superintendency 
of  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at  West  Point. 
Then  there  came  to  him  the  appointment  of  lieutenant- 
colonel  of  cavalry — an  honor  which  pleased  him  more 
than  all  others,  for  his  father  during  the  American 
Eevolution  had  been  known  as  ''Light  Horse  Harry," 
because  of  his  unexcelled  horsemanship,  in  command  of 
the  troopers  under  the  flag  of  Liberty. 

These  were  the  days  when  the  American  Indians 
were  stubbornly  resisting  the  invasion  of  the  white  man 
on  the  Western  frontier.  In  command  of  his  cavalry, 
the  lieutenant-colonel  from  West  Point  swept  into  the 

—69— 


HERO  TALES 


great  West  and  pushed  forward  the  outposts  of  civili- 
zation. Military  honors  were  coming  rapidly  to  the 
brilliant  cavalry  leader. 

Then  came  the  terrible  Civil  War.  The  nation  was 
rent  asunder.  The  great  North  stood  arrayed  against 
the  magnificent  South.  The  American  people  were 
divided  so  hopelessly  that  only  a  conquest  for  su- 
premacy could  ever  restore  peace.  The  nation  called 
to  her  sons,  and  the  officer  from  West  Point  heard  the 
call.  The  honors  of  the  army  were  his.  He  could  now 
lead  his  regiments  into  battle  under  the  flag  of  the 
country  for  which  he  had  so  long  fought  and  which  his 
fathers  established.  It  was  the  moment  of  opportunity 
for  which  military  ambition  had  so  long  dreamed — to 
carry  the  Stars  and  Stripes  to  glorious  triumph. 

But  his  heart  grew  heavy  with  sadness.  Who  was 
the  foe?  Against  whom  was  he  to  lead  his  army? 
What  was  the  land  which  he  must  invade  with  a  rain 
of  fire  and  shell?  Who  were  these  people  who  were  to 
fall  under  his  onslaught  1 

The  soldier  bowed  his  head.  For  many  days  he  was 
silent.    A  great  grief  seemed  to  be  upon  his  heart. 

' '  I  cannot  do  it, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  must  resign  from  the 
army.  I  cannot  lead  an  army  against  my  own  people, 
when  I  believe  they  are  rightj/ 

Then  another  call  came  to  him.  It  was  the  pleading 
voice  of  the  South— his  home-land.  Its  plaintive  tones 
rang  in  his  ears  and  swelled  in  his  breast.  His  beloved 
ones  needed  him.  They  were  in  imminent  peril ;  their 
lives  and  homes  were  threatened.  They  must  defend 
themselves— and  they  wanted  the  heir  of  that  old 
Southern  plantation  to  come  to  them. 

"I  must  stand  with  the  beliefs  and  the  traditions  of 
my  home  and  state,"  he  decided.  "This  is  my  first 
duty,  even  though  it  opposes  my  country." 

—70— 


THE  VIRGINIAN 


He  manfully  informed  liis  Government  of  his  de- 
cision, and,  resigning  his  commission  in  the  United 
States  army,  he  went  home.  The  people  of  his  state 
greeted  him  as  their  savior.  Cheers  rang  in  his  ears 
as  he  passed  through  the  Commonwealth  of  his  nativity. 
He  had  made  the  greatest  sacrifice  that  man  could  ever 
be  called  to  make,  and  his  kindly  face  was  lined  with 
sadness. 

The  great  war  broke  upon  his  beloved  home-land. 
In  the  fighting  regiments,  rode  the  stately  commander 
from  West  Point,  now  in  the  uniform  of  the  gray,  and 
under  the  new  flag  of  the  Stars  and  Bars.  The  tumult 
swept  the  land.  The  two  greatest  fighting  forces  that 
were  ever  arrayed  on  earth  were  now  in  mortal  combat. 
The  unconquerable  courage  of  the  man  from  West 
Point  inspired  his  people,  and,  after  the  battle  of  Seven 
Pines,  he  was  placed  in  command  of  the  Army  of  Vir- 
ginia, the  pride  of  the  Confederacy.  The  North  now 
knew  that  it  was  pitted  against  the  fairest  and  most 
courageous  fighter  that  a  government  could  ever  meet ; 
a  man  who  could  grasp  situations,  who  could  plan  cam- 
paigns, and  above  all  who  knew  the  human  side  of  war 
and  inspired  men  with  his  manhood. 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  June,  in  1862.  The 
Federal  troopers  were  threatening  Richmond,  the 
capital  of  the  Confederacy.  The  defenders  of  the  city 
were  terror-stricken.  In  a  tent,  gathered  about  a  table, 
the  officers  were  figuring  with  pencil  and  paper,  showing 
how  the  Federals  might  advance  and  take  the  capital. 

' '  Stop ! ' '  ordered  the  general.  If  you  go  to  cipher- 
ing, we  are  whipped  before  we  begin ! ' ' 

He  ordered  the  construction  of  earth-works.  Gruns 
were  placed  in  position.  Then  he  calmly  awaited  the 
attack  of  a  greater  force  of  men  than  his  own.  On  came 
the  Union  army.     For  seven   long  days   of  fearful 


HERO  TALES 


Carnage  the  brave  Confederates  held  their  position. 
Often  in  the  forefront  of  the  battle,  the  general  urged 
his  men  on.  Time  and  again,  he  attempted  to  ride  to 
the  front  and  lead  the  attacks  in  person,  but  his  soldiers, 
knowing  the  value  of  his  military  genius  to  their  cause, 
would  grasp  the  bridle-rein  of  his  horse  and  refuse  to 
go  forward  themselves  if  the  general  did  not  retire. 
The  Federals  were  repulsed  and  swept  with  an  ir- 
resistible rush  back  to  the  James  River,  and  even  to  the 
very  capitol  at  Washington,  which  trembled  under  the 
mighty  leadership  of  the  besieging  Confederate. 

Now  the  nation  was  alarmed.  The  Government  was 
threatened.  The  enemy  were  knocking  at  the  gates  of 
the  great  capital.  Then  the  tide  of  war  turned  and  the 
invaders  were  swept  back  into  the  valley  of  Virginia 
to  the  defense  of  their  own  Richmond.  In  victory,  the 
great  commander  of  the  army  in  gray  showered  the 
credit  on  his  soldiers ;  in  defeat,  he  took  the  blame  on 
himself.  The  long,  weary  years  of  warfare  stretched 
on.  Both  of  the  American  armies  seemed  to  be  un- 
conquerable, until  the  great  resources  of  the  federal 
government  began  to  slowly  overpower  the  Con- 
federates, who,  worn  out  by  the  battle  against  over- 
whelming odds  took  their  last  stand  in  defense  of  the 
capital  of  the  Confederacy.  As  the  Federal  army  had 
been  when  forced  to  defend  Washington,  the  condition 
of  the  Confederate  soldiers  was  now  pitiful.  Thousands 
were  without  shoes ;  thousands,  with  but  fragments  to 
cover  their  feet,  and  all  without  overcoats  and  blankets 
or  warm  clothing ;  but  they  lay  in  the  trenches  at  Rich- 
mond awaiting  the  final  assault  with  an  undaunted 
spirit,  willing  to  be  annihilated  rather  than  surrender. 

Bay  and  night  for  months,  an  incessant  fire  rained 
down  upon  them,  but  their  loyalty  to  their  general 
never  failed  during  that  dismal  winter.     Snow,  hail, 

—72— 


THE  VIRGINIAN 


rain,  wind,  cannon-fire,  starvation, — they  bore  them 
all. 

Then  came  the  end.  Human  endurance  had  reached 
its  limit.  They  must  flee  from  their  beloved  Richmond 
to  save  their  lives.  But  they  would  destroy  the  capital 
of  their  lost  cause  with  their  own  hands,  rather  than 
leave  it  to  the  invaders.  Flames  enveloped  the  mag- 
nificent Southern  city.  The  fearless  remnant  of  the 
warriors  in  gray,  under  the  guidance  of  their  inspiring 
general,  fled  into  the  valley,  fighting  as  they  went,  and 
leaving  their  dead  behind  them,  until  the  great  com- 
mander' s  heart  would  no  longer  allow  him  to  lead  them 
on  to  annihilation. 

The  sun  fell  upon  Appomattox  Court-house.  Be- 
fore the  great  general  of  the  Americans  in  blue,  stood 
the  white-haired,  kindly-faced  warrior  of  the  Americans 
in  gray — noble  in  surrender  as  he  had  been  in  the  days 
of  triumph.  His  head  bent,  he  offered  his  sword  to  his 
victor,  with  resignation  to  the  inevitable  imprinted 
upon  his  face.  The  gallant  general  of  the  blue  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  man  in  gray,  with  whom  he  had 
fought  in  years  gone  by,  under  the  same  flag  in  Mexico 
— and  returned  the  sword,  with  a  grace  that  touched 
the  manhood  of  the  nation. 

The  great  commander  in  blue  rode  from  the  field  in 
triumph.  The  commander  in  gray  turned  to  look  for 
the  last  time  upon  his  men.  His  soldiers  understood  the 
meaning  of  it  all  to  his  grief -burdened  heart.  Gather- 
ing at  his  side,  they  pressed  his  hand,  stroked  his  cloth- 
ing, and  caressed  his  horse.  The  great  commander 
raised  his  hat  and  stood  before  them. 

''Men,"  he  said,  his  voice  gentle  as  of  old,  "we 
have  fought  through  the  war  together.  I  have  done  my 
best  for  you.    My  heart  is  too  full  to  say  more." 

The  war  was  over.  The  dawn  of  Peace  cast  its 
—73— 


HERO  TALES 


radiance  over  the  land.  Two  great  fighting  armies  be- 
came one  powerful  working  force  for  civilization  under 
the  same  flag.  Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world 
have  a  people  been  re-united,  after  dissension,  into 
such  a  brotherhood. 

In  the  beautiful  little  village  of  Lexington,  in  the 
hills  of  Eockbridge  County  in  Virginia,  is  a  university, 
which  for  generations  has  moulded  the  manhood  and 
character  of  the  sons  of  the  South,  disseminating  its 
culture  and  learning  throughout  the  nation.  This  noble 
institution  opened  its  arms  to  the  great  commander  in 
his  hour  of  deepest  affliction  and  bestowed  upon  him 
the  presidency  of  the  Washington  and  Lee  University. 
This  was  the  first  ray  of  light  that  came  to  the  man  who 
had  ''done  his  best"  for  his  people.  And  here,  in  the 
love  and  respect  of  his  own,  he  passed  the  last  years  of 
his  life,  instilling  nobility  and  patriotic  inspiration  into 
the  hearts  and  minds  of  the  youth  of  the  South,  for  in 
his  own  heart  there  was  no  malice. 

In  this  magnificent  environment,  the  great  warrior 
passed  his  last  days.  Then  came  his  last  great  battle 
with  the  world, — but  he  did  not  care  to  win. 

''It  is  of  no  use,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  feebly, 
as  he  lay  on  his  death-bed.  He  neither  expected  nor 
desired  to  recover.  As  he  lay  in  his  darkened  room, 
the  hearth-fire  cast  its  flickering  shadows  upon  his  calm, 
noble  face.  In  his  last  moments  he  lived  over  again, 
in  delirium,  the  fearful  days  of  war!  he  led  his  army 
into  battle ;  he  called  to  his  soldiers. 

"Tell  Hill  he  must  come  up,"  he  ordered,  and  fell 
into  his  la^t  repose — and  oh,  what  a  glorious  rest  it  is ! 

This,  then  is  the  tale  of  a  man  who  was  as  noble  in 
defeat  as  he  was  in  victory — a  man  whose  resignation 
in  failure  is  a  lesson  to  all  Americans — General  Robert 
E.  Lee. 

—74— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  PRIEST  AND  CROSS 
THAT  SAVED  HALF  A  CONTINENT 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  priest 
who  did  unto  others  as  he  would  have  them  do  unto  him; 
who  went  into  the  American   wilderness  in   its  savage  days 
to  carry  the  cross  of  the  Golden   Rule  in  the  mad  conquest  of  the 
Continent,  when  civilization  was  in  desperate  combat  with  the  Red  Man. 

IT  WAS  in  1849.    The  greed  for  gold  had  seized 
the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  they  were  willing  to 
pay  their  lives  to  gain  it. 
^'On  to  the  gold  fields!" 

The  cry  swept  across  the  continent.  Thousands  of 
daring  men  defied  fate  in  the  struggle  for  riches.  From 
California  along  the  coast  to  the  wilds  of  British 
Columbia,  a  mighty  nation  was  fighting  the  battle  of 
avarice. 

In  this  mad  rush  into  danger,  there  was  one  pilgrim 
whose  mission  was  neither  greed  nor  gold.  He  was  a 
youth  of  twenty- two,  but  he  was  called  Father  Lacombe. 
About  him  clung  a  black  robe ;  around  his  neck  was  a 
cross,  bearing  the  figure  of  the  Crucified  Christ ;  while 
on  his  lips  were  prayers  for  the  safety  of  the  dear  ones 
at  home,  and  appeals  to  God  to  teach  men  that  the  way 
to  happiness  is  not  through  wealth,  but  in  the  peace  of 
a  clear  conscience. 

''My  children  need  me,"  he  said.  **My  duty  lies 
in  the  wilderness  where  God  calls  me." 

As  he  journeyed,  he  came  one  night  to  a  little  village 


HERO  TALES 


on  the  Mississippi  Eiver.  It  contained  twenty-five 
crude  huts,  and  here  Father  Lacombe  said  mass. 
That  little  village  to-day  is  the  great  city  of  St.  Paul. 
The  buffalo  then  roamed  the  prairies  in  countless  herds. 
But  it  was  with  men  that  the  brave  and  true  priest  had 
to  do.  ' '  Crees, ' " '  Bloods, "  "  Blackf eet, "  ' '  Crows, '  '— 
from  all  over  the  United  States,  had  caught  the  spirit 
of  greed  and  had  entered  the  contest  for  the  possession 
of  the  great  western  empire.  All  were  the  "children" 
of  Father  Lacombe;  all  the  object  of  his  tender  care. 
Throughout  the  strife  of  mankind  and  the  clash  of  the 
races,  the  young  priest  traveled  unharmed  over  thou- 
sands of  miles  of  wilderness,  where,  at  certain  times, 
death  would  have  been  the  sure  fate  of  any  man  except 
the  saintly  figure  of  a  priest.  It  was  a  priest,  who, 
forty  years  later,  after  the  dreadful  massacre  of 
General  Custer  and  his  troopers  of  the  Seventh  United 
States  Cavalry,  built  a  cross  of  rough  wood,  painted  it 
white,  fastened  it  to  his  buckboard,  and,  driving  onto 
the  battlefield,  planted  it  among  the  dying  soldiers. 

Father  Lacombe  was  beloved  by  savages  and  civ- 
ilized men  alike.  He  learned  from  the  Indians  their 
tongue,  and  ministered  to  their  needs,  journeying  over 
a  half  million  square  miles  of  the  continent,  and  always 
stopping  to  speak  a  word  of  good  will  to  every  man  that 
he  met. 

One  night,  he  was  camping  in  the  interminable 
snow,  with  his  guide,  on  the  edge  of  a  small  copse  in 
the  far  north.  The  sky  grew  black,  foreboding  storm. 
They  were  eighty  miles  from  a  living  soul,  in  the  midst 
of  the  awful  silence  of  the  terrible  Arctic  cold.  The 
snapping  of  the  fagots,  or  an  occasional  splinter  of 
frost-cracked  trees,  was  all  that  broke  the  stillness. 
Suddenly,  the  guide  sprang  to  his  feet.  A  voice!  A 
muffled  wail !     Then  out  of  the  woods  there  came  a  call. 

—76— 


THE  PRIEST 


''Alex,  do  you  hear?"  said  the  priest. 

''It's  only  a  hare  seized  by  an  owl,"  responded  the 
guide. 

He  drew  his  blanket  tightly  around  him. 

"It  may  be  the  voice  of  some  brave  buried  among 
the  branches  of  trees,  calling  for  something  his  family 
neglected  to  place  with  his  corpse,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  curled  himself  upon  the  ground.  "To  follow  that 
voice  means  sure  death. ' ' 

"It  is  the  voice  of  some  one  in  distress,"  exclaimed 
the  priest.     "I  shall  go  and  see  who  it  is." 

Father  Lacombe  faced  the  dark  night. 

"Who's  there!"  he  called. 

"A  woman  lost  with  her  child,"  came  the  reply,  in 
the  Cree  tongue.  And,  indeed,  only  a  short  distance 
away,  the  good  priest  discovered  a  human  form, 
wrapped  in  a  buffalo  robe,  and  lying  across  the  embers 
of  a  dying  camp-fire.  She  had  been  terribly  beaten 
by  her  Indian  husband  and  had  gone  forth  from  the 
camp  to  slay  her  babe  and  herself,  but  the  child's  cry 
had  appealed  to  her  mother-heart,  and  had  stayed  her 
hand.  She  had  tramped  on  till  her  frozen  feet  could 
carry  her  no  farther.  Wrapping  the  little  one  in  her 
warmest  clothing,  she  had  taken  it  in  her  arms,  spread 
the  robe  over  them  and  lain  down  to  await  the  end. 

When  morning  came,  the  guide  and  the  dogs  were 
fastened  to  the  sleigh,  and,  with  Father  Lacombe  push- 
ing behind,  they  started  with  the  poor  Indian  mother 
for  the  mission  house,  hundreds  of  miles  away.  Upon 
their  arrival  there  it  was  necessary  to  amputate  her 
feet  to  save  her  life. 

On  the  way,  they  met  the  Cree  husband  of  the  Indian 
mother. 

"  Me  I  -  T7ant  this  wif e !  Mind  own  business.  Let 
her  die  alone,"  he  blustered. 

—77— 


HERO  TALES 


The  good,  red  blood  of  manliood  in  Father  La- 
combe's  veins  was  aronsed,  and  he  made  a  vigorous 
stroke  at  the  savage. 

*'You  miserable  beast!"  thundered  the  good  priest. 
"You  don't  care  as  much  for  your  child  as  a  dog  for  its 
pui^s.     Go  and  hide  your  contemptible  head!" 

As  the  years  passed,  Father  Lacombe  became  the 
trusted  friend  of  the  American  Indians.  His  affection 
for  "Old  Crowfoot,"  one  of  the  last  of  the  mighty 
barbaric  monarchs  of  the  Great  Northwest,  was  heroic. 
Between  them,  these  two  men  controlled  the  peace  of  a 
territory  as  large  as  that  of  many  a  great  empire. 
Together  they  shared  dreadful  privations  and  endurc'l 
frightful  winters  and  storms.  Side  by  side  they  passed 
through  savage  battles  in  respect  and  love.  So  deep 
had  become  Father  Lacombe 's  affection  for  the  red 
men  that  he  offered  his  life  to  protect  them  from  the 
white  man's  brutal  intrusion. 

He  feared  that  the  sins  of  the  white  man  would  be 
implanted  in  the  wild  blood  of  the  Indian  and  he  labored 
to  shield  him  from  that  fate. 

One  day  the  news  came  that  a  railroad  was  to 
penetrate  the  wilderness.  Father  Lacombe  knew  its 
meaning.  He  hurried  to  the  Indians  on  their  reserva- 
tion and  called  together  the  leaders. 

"In  a  month,"  he  said  gently,  in  their  native  tongue, 
"the  white  man  will  be  here  with  his  railroad.  With 
him  he  will  bring  many  who  are  wicked  and  soulless. 
And  he  will  bring  whisky,  disease  and  pitiful  degra- 
dation. ' ' 

The  Indians  smoked  in  silence,  and  then  old  Crow- 
foot spoke: 

"We  have  listened,"  he  said.  "We  will  not  go  to 
the  railroad." 

But,  alas,  for  the  pure-hearted  priest,  and  the  wise, 


THE  PRIEST 


brave,  old  chief !  The  buffalo  were  gone  and  food  was 
scarce ;  the  money  of  the  white  man  and  his  inf amons 
whisky  were  stronger  than  the  counsel  of  religion  or 
wisdom;  soon  the  tepees  of  the  Indians  were  pitched 
beside  the  railroad  construction-camps  and  the  end  of 
their  race  had  begun. 

Not  only  this — but  the  plagues  of  the  white  man 
were  upon  them.  Father  Lacombe  found  himself,  with 
three  thousand  about  him,  dying  and  dead,  of  small- 
pox ;  men  fleeing  from  camp,  pursued  by  the  phantom 
of  death;  wolves  skulking  unmolested  past  the  wind- 
blown tent-flaps ;  no  one  remaining  to  bury  the  dead. 

It  was  some  years  later,  when  he  was  sitting  one 
night  with  Sun  Chief  in  one  of  the  Blaekfoot  camps. 
It  was  in  bitter  December  weather:  A  fierce  gale  was 
abroad ;  fires  were  piled  high  ;  tents  were  braced  against 
the  gale,  and  four  hundred  horses  were  sheltered  and 
tethered  to  keep  them  from  driving  before  the  fierce 
wind.  Midnight  came  and  only  the  fire  in  Sun  Chief's 
tent  was  still  ablaze.  Suddenly,  out  of  the  black  night, 
came  a  volley  of  rifle  shots  and  the  fierce,  blood-chilling 
yells  of  the  Crees.  Sun  Chief's  tent,  a  good  mark  in 
the  dim  light,  was  the  principal  point  of  attack.  Tear- 
ing open  the  flap,  he  hurled  his  family  into  the  darkness 
to  flee  for  life.    Father  Lacombe  seized  his  cross. 

"Stand  your  ground!  Fight,  my  children!"  he 
cried.  "If  you  run,  they  will  shoot  you  down.  For- 
ward, my  braves!  Fight  for  your  wives  and  your 
children ! ' ' 

The  battle  raged  fiercely.  The  truth  of  it  all 
dawned  upon  the  priest.  If  the  Crees  should  succeed 
in  destroying  the  Blaekfoot  camp,  every  mission  and 
every  post  between  the  Missouri  River  and  the  Mac- 
kenzie, two  thousand  miles  north,  would  be  wiped  from 
existence  and  the  work  of  civilization  for  a  century 

—79— 


HERO  TALES 


defeated.  Father  Lacombe  was  the  friend  of  the  Cree 
and  Blackfoot  alike.  Had  he  not  helped  the  Cree  when 
the  scourge  of  small-pox  was  upon  him?  Instantly  he 
rushed  forward  and  stood  in  the  dying  light  of  the  camp- 
fire.     In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  cross ;  in  his  left  a  flag. 

"  It  is  I,  Father  Lacombe,  your  friend ! "  he  shouted. 
But  storm  and  rifle  shot,  screams  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, the  stampeding  of  horses  and  the  yells  of  the 
battle,  the  groans  of  wounded  and  dying — drowned  that 
blessed  voice. 

The  Blackfoot  warriors  stood  like  heroes,  following 
the  priest's  cheers  and  counsel.  Three  times  the  Crees 
attacked  them  and  fell  back.  The  storm  that  had 
drowned  the  priest's  voice  now  helped  to  obscure  the 
weakness  of  the  defenders.  He  stepped  into  the  night. 
His  red  comrades  called  him  back,  but  it  was  too  late. 
Suddenly,  in  the  half  light,  he  was  seen  to  fall.  Demons 
could  not  now  restrain  the  Blackfoot.  No  longer  on 
the  defensive,  they  rushed  to  the  attack,  a  whirlwind 
of  rage  driving  them  on.  With  yells  of  fury,  they 
poured  volley  after  volley  into  the  Crees,  rushing  them 
madly  from  snow-drift  to  snow-drift,  hurling  them 
back  in  amazement  and  fear.  A  Cree  advanced  to 
parley.  The  face  that  stood  before  him  was  that  of 
Father  Lacombe,  and  the  warriors  withdrew  into  the 
forests. 

The  victory  was  won !  Father  Lacombe  was  alive, 
bearing  the  wound  of  a  glancing  bullet  on  the  shoulder 
and  forehead.  The  man,  who,  by  the  lifting  of  his  hand 
had  prevented  a  massacre  that  might  have  wiped  out 
the  frontier  of  half  a  continent,  stood  with  cross  and 
prayer-book  still  in  hand,  his  limbs  exposed  in  the 
frozen  storm  and  only  a  soutane  coat  thrown  over  his 
shoulder.  He  had  been  robbed  of  his  robes,  but  the 
Great  Northwest  had  been  saved. 

—80— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  VALIANT  CAVALIER 
WHO  WOULD  NOT  SURRENDER 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  cavalry  leader 
who  refused  to  haul  down  the  flag  that  he  loved,  even  when 
his  eyes  rested  on  defeat,  and  who,  when  vanquished,  withdrew 
his  thousand   horsemen  on  retreat  through  the  lines  of  the  enemy,' 
under  cover  of  the  night,  without  losing  a  man  from  his  daring  cavalcade. 

THE  gigantic  struggle  between  the  North  and  the 
South  was  bewildering  the  nations.  The 
advantage  seemed  to  be  going  to  the  stronger 
side,  though  neither  was  gaining  a  decided 
victory.  Even  a  great  and  powerful  government 
seemed  unable  to  suppress  the  uprising  of  its  own  sons. 
The  world  had  found  that  when  Americans  meet  in 
combat  over  a  principle,  it  is  a  fight  to  the  death. 

The  hour  of  the  first  turning-point  had  now  come. 
The  day  was  the  fifteenth  of  February,  1862.  The 
American  army  in  blue,  with  twenty-seven  thousand 
men,  outnumbering  the  army  in  gray  nearly  two  to  one, 
stood  before  Fort  Donelson,  down  in  Tennessee,  wait- 
ing the  order  to  advance. 

It  was  four  o  'clock  in  the  morning.  Far  down  the 
road  moved  more  than  a  thousand  horsemen — the 
flower  of  the  Confederate  cavalry — under  the  command 
of  an  intrepid  leader,  who  rode  his  charger  with  the 
swaying  grace  of  a  man  of  the  plains. 

At  the  break  of  dawn  an  outpost  brought  this  mes- 
sage into  camp : 

—81— 


HERO  I  ALES 


''The  enemy  is  approaching.  The  daring  South- 
erners are  charging  npon  us  with  their  cavalry." 

Along  the  road  advanced  the  brave  thirteen  hun- 
dred against  the  mighty  army  in  blue.  It  was  six 
o'clock  when  the  foaming  horses  drew  into  sight.  On 
they  came,  as  though  unaware  that  an  enemy  existed  in 
the  world,  until  they  were  passing  the  Federal  outposts. 

A  volley  of  musketry  flashed  in  their  faces. 

' '  Charge ! ! "  cried  the  cavalry  leader. 

The  horses  plunged  at  the  breastworks.  The  com- 
bat was  sharp  and  fierce,  hand  to  hand.  The  resistance 
was  as  stubborn  as  the  attack  was  gallant.  Many  of 
the  Southerners  were  armed  only  with  shot-guns  and 
squirrel-rifles,  and  pressed  close  to  the  Federal  lines 
in  order  that  their  weapons  might  prove  effective.  For 
more  than  two  hours  they  fought.  The  Confederate 
cavalry,  apparently  unconquerable,  slowly  began  to 
gain  ground.  Little  by  little,  the  troops  in  blue  were 
forced  to  drop  back,  bitterly  contending  every  step  of 
the  way.  And  as  slowly  and  surely  the  horsemen  in 
gray  were  pushing  forward.  At  the  head  of  his  men, 
pistol  in  hand,  the  Confederate  cavalry  leader  fought 
his  way  close  to  the  Federal  intrenchments,  and  by  the 
force  of  his  inspiration  led  his  men  on  to  accomplish 
the  seemingly  impossible. 

Alarmed  by  the  fierceness  of  the  onslaught,  and 
overestimating  the  strength  of  the  charging  forces,  the 
Federal  commander  sent  an  urgent  call  to  headquarters 
for  reinforcements.  The  blue  brigade  made  a  gallant 
fight,  but  the  alert  horsemen  in  gray  had  pushed  a 
detachment  around  their  right  flank,  and  to  their  rear. 
The  fire  was  staggering  the  Federals.  They  seemed  to 
waver. 

"Charge!"  shouted  the  Confederate  leader. 
Straight    for    the    Union    lines    the    foam-flecked 
—82— 


THE  CAVALIER 


horses  plunged.  Panic  seized  the  men  in  blue.  Close 
after  the  fleeing  soldiers  the  Confederate  cavalry 
rushed,  riding  down  the  gunners  of  one  of  the  Union 
batteries  and  capturing  the  cannon.  Leaving  a  small 
band  to  take  it  from  the  field,  they  pressed  on  after 
the  retreating  forces. 

The  great  armies  of  the  blue  and  the  gray  were  now 
all  in  action.  Infantry  were  crowding  onto  the  battle- 
ground by  the  thousands.  The  conflict  begun  by  the 
thirteen  hundred  brave  horsemen,  was  now  a  seething 
torrent  of  flame  in  which  twenty-seven  thousand  Fed- 
erals were  directing  their  fire  at  the  fort,  which  was 
defended  by  fourteen  thousand  Confederates,  and  was 
the  coveted  military  position  of  the  Middle  West. 

Two  cannon  belched  forth  flame  in  the  path  of  the 
Confederate  army. 

''They  must  be  silenced!  You  must  take  them!" 
ordered  the  general  in  gray. 

At  the  head  of  his  own  squadron  the  cavalry  leader 
started  for  the  guns.  Over  a  field  swept  by  the  bullets 
of  the  Federal  troops,  they  charged. 

*'He  is  down!"  cried  the  Federal  soldiers. 

The  horse  of  the  Confederate  cavalryman  had  been 
shot  from  under  him,  but  securing  another,  he  sprang 
to  the  saddle.  Then,  with  a  few  men,  he  pushed  for- 
ward to  reconnoiter.  Suddenly,  coming  out  of  a  dense 
growth  of  underbrush,  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  a  force  of  Union  cavalry.  Before  he  could  turn  to 
retreat,  his  horse  was  felled  by  a  shell,  and  for  the 
second  time  he  found  himself  on  foot.  Through  the 
tangle  of  branches  he  crashed  and  made  his  way  back 
to  his  command,  and  then  he  was  ordered  by  the  general 
to  gather  up  the  batteries  that  had  been  captured,  and 
a  retreat  was  begun  along  the  entire  Confederate  line. 
Night  fell.     The  men  in  grav  still  held  the  fort,  and  the 

—83— 


HERO  TALES 


men  in  blue  again  occupied  the  places  from  whicli  they 
had  been  driven  at  daybreak. 

It  was  midnight.  The  cavalry  leader  whose  duty  it 
had  been  to  start  the  day's  combat,  was  sleeping  by  his 
camp-fire.  A  messenger  spoke  his  name  and  he 
quickly  sprang  to  his  feet. 

''What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

''You  are  wanted  by  the  officers,"  was  the  reply. 

"We  are  discussing  the  terms  of  surrender,"  said 
the  general,  as  the  cavalry  leader  stood  before  him. 

The  cavalryman  was  amazed. 

"We  are  here  to  fight;  not  to  surrender,"  he  urged. 

"The  numbers  against  us  are  overwhelming," 
replied  the  commander.  "The  outlook  is  hopeless. 
The  better  part  of  wisdom  and  valor  is  to  surrender. ' ' 

"I  cannot — I  will  not  surrender  either  myself  or  my 
men,"  he  cried.  "If  the  fort  falls,  it  must  fall  with- 
out us." 

A  few  moments  later  he  stood  before  his  men  in  the 
light  of  the  camp-fire. 

"Men,"  he  said,  "the  fort  is  to  surrender.  I  have 
informed  the  general  that  not  one  of  our  men  will  lay 
down  his  arms.  Follow  me,  and  I  will  try  to  take  you 
out  safely.  I  am  going,  if  I  have  to  go  alone,  and  die 
in  the  attempt." 

The  morning  sun  fell  on  Fort  Donelson.  The  white 
flag  of  surrender  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  The  fort  had 
surrendered  and  the  Federal  arms  had  won  their  first 
great  victory  of  the  war,  the  turning-point  of  the  great 
struggle.  But  among  the  troops  that  became  prisoners 
of  war,  was  not  one  of  the  gallant  cavalry.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  they  had  passed  through  the  sleeping 
Federal  lines  to  safety,  and  were  now  dashing  over  the 
hills,  headed  by  that  most  daring  leader  of  the  Con- 
federate cavalry — General  Nathan  B.  Forrest. 

—84— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WIDOWED  MOTHER 
WHO  GAVE  SEVEN  SONS  TO  LIBERTY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  widowed  mother 
who  sent  seven  sons  to  fight  for  the  independence 
of  her  country  and  who  wished  she  had  '  fifty"  to  offer  the 
cause  of  Liberty.    It  is  a  tale  of  a  nnother's  heart  which  inspired 
her  daughters  to  venture  their  lives  in  the  service  of  the  flag  of  freedom. 

IT  "WAS  down  in  South  Carolina.  The  strong  men 
of  the  South  were  nobly  defending  the  flag  of 
independence,  and  slowly  but  surely  driving  the 
British  from  the  land.  In  the  ranks  with  General 
Greene,  fighting  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  were  the 
two  eldest  Martin  brothers.  Their  wives,  Grace  and 
Eachel,  lived  with  Mother  Martin  while  the  husbands 
were  at  war.  The  highway  in  front  of  the  Martin 
home  was  the  favorite  road  of  the  British  messengers 
who  carried  the  orders  to  the  army,  and  upon  these 
despatches  depended  the  movements  of  the  soldiers. 

''I  wonder  if  we  can't  do  something  for  our  coun- 
try,'' exclaimed  Grace  Martin,  as  she  saw  a  courier  on 
his  horse,  galloping  down  the  road. 

' '  I  '11  tell  you, ' '  said  Rachel.  ' '  Let 's  dress  in  men 's 
clothes  and  see  if  we  can  get  one  of  those  messages. 
They  might  tell  us  something  that  we  could  send  to  the 
army.  At  any  rate,  we  could  keep  it  from  the  British. ' ' 
It  was  night.  The  battles  of  the  day  had  been  hard 
fought,  and  couriers  were  hurrying  to  the  lines  with 
important  orders  for  the  morning,  upon  which  depended 

—85— 


HERO  TALES 


the  lives  of  thousands  of  soldiers,  and  the  victory  or 
defeat  of  our  arms. 

The  two  young  women  donned  some  clothes  which 
their  husbands  had  left  in  the  house,  and,  with  coat- 
collars  turned  up,  hats  drawn  down  over  their  eyes, 
and  pistols  in  their  hands,  hurried  along  the  highway. 
They  had  reached  a  bend  in  the  road  where  the  forest 
was  dense,  when  the  hoofs  of  horses  could  be  heard 
approaching.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  until  they 
had  reached  the  secluded  spot  where  the  supposed 
highwaymen  were  standing. 

''Halt,"  cried  a  voice,  and  the  figure  of  a  man 
sprang  at  the  reins  held  by  the  courier,  and  thrust  a 
revolver  into  his  face. 

The  man  was  taken  without  warning.  He  looked  to 
his  escort,  but  he,  too,  was  held  at  the  point  of  a  pistol. 

"Give  me  that  despatch,"  ordered  the  voice,  "or 
I'll  take  your  life." 

The  courier  stared  into  the  barrel  of  the  revolver, 
and  then  released  the  despatch  with  reluctance.  The 
highwaymen,  almost  as  overcome  by  surprise  as  the 
soldiers,  fled  into  the  dark.  A  few  minutes  later,  the 
young  wives  rushed  breathlessly  into  their  home. 

"We  have  got  a  despatch,"  they  cried  gleefully. 
"We  held  up  a  British  courier  at  the  bend  of  the  road 
and  got  a  despatch ! ' ' 

Almost  as  they  were  speaking,  there  was  a  hard 
rap  at  the  door.  Mother  Martin  opened  the  door,  while 
the  young  women  disappeared.  There  stood  two 
British  soldiers. 

"Can  we  get  shelter  here  for  the  night?"  asked  one 
of  them. 

"Surely,  you  can,"  answered  Mother  Martin, 
whose  doors  were  always  open  to  the  wayfarer,  no 
matter  under  which  flag  he  was  fighting. 

—SG— 


THE  WIDOWED  MOTHER 


The  soldiers  entered,  and,  after  being  offered  the 
comforts  of  the  home,  fell  into  conversation  with  the 
young  women,  who  had  now  recovered  from  their 
excitement  and  were  again  in  womanly  attire. 

''How  came  you  here?"  asked  Grace  Martin,  by 
way  of  entertaining  their  guests. 

"We  were  held-up  on  the  highway,"  replied  one  of 
the  soldiers,  ' '  and  have  decided  that  it  is  not  safe  to  go 
on  till  morning." 

''Had  you  no  arms?"  inquired  the  girls. 

"We  were  taken  off  our  guard  and  had  no  time  to 
use  them,"  replied  the  courier. 

The  girls  taunted  them  with  their  lack  of  courage, 
and  the  followers  of  two  flags  sat  before  the  fire  for 
some  hours  telling  stories  of  war ;  but  the  British  guests 
never  discovered  that  they  were  at  that  moment  still 
in  the  hands  of  their  captives. 

Mother  Martin,  whose  name  was  Elizabeth,  was  a 
native  of  Carolina  county,  Virginia,  but  upon  her  mar- 
riage to  Abram  Martin  had  removed  to  his  plantation 
in  the  district  of  "Ninety-Six."  At  the  opening  of  the 
war,  she  had  nine  children;  seven  were  boys  and  all 
were  old  enough  to  enlist  in  the  ranks.  When  the  first 
call  to  arms  was  heralded  through  the  land.  Mother 
Martin,  thrilling  with  patriotism  and  zeal,  called  her 
sons  before  her. 

"Go,  boys,"  she  said,  "and  fight  for  your  country! 
Fight  till  death,  if  you  must,  but  never  let  your  country 
be  dishonored ! ' ' 

' '  Were  I  a  man, ' '  she  added, ' '  I  would  go  with  you. ' ' 

Sometime  later,  when  several  British  officers  were 
taking  refreshments  at  Mother  Martin's  house,  she 
was  talking  of  her  boys  and  one  of  the  officers  inquired : 

"How  many  sons  have  you?" 

"Seven,"  she  replied,  proudly. 
—87— 


HERO  TALES 


''Where  are  they?"  inquired  the  officer. 

''All  of  them  are  engaged  in  the  service  of  their 
country,"  replied  the  proud  mother. 

"Eeally,  madam,"  said  the  officer  with  a  haughty 
sneer,  "you  have  enough  of  them!" 

' '  Sir, ' '  replied  Mother  Martin,  looking  him  directly 
in  the  eyes,  ' '  I  wish  I  had  fifty ! ' ' 

After  the  war  was  over,  and  a  new  nation  waved  the 
banner  of  liberty  before  the  world.  Mother  Martin 
clasped  to  her  arms  six  of  the  seven  patriot  sons  whom 
she  had  offered  to  her  country.  Her  mother-heart  was 
forced  to  make  but  one  sacrifice — her  seventh  and 
eldest  son  slept  on  the  battlefield  of  Augusta. 


"She  is  old,  and  bent,  and  wrinkled. 

In  her  rocker  in  the  sun, 
And    the   thick,   gray,    woolen   stocking 

That  she  knits  is  never  done. 
She  will  ask  the  news  of  battle 

If  you  pass  her  when  you  will. 
For  to  her  the  troops  are  marching, 

Marching  still. 

"Seven  tall  sons  about  her  growing 
Cheered  the  widowed  mother's  soul; 
One  by  one  they  kissed  and  left  her 
When  the  drums  began  to  roll." 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  BROTHERLY  LOVE 
THAT  FOUNDED  A  POWERFUL  STATE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  man 
who  loved  his  feliowmen,  and  who,  even  at  the  peril 
of  his  life,  practised  what  he  preached.     It  is  a  tale  of  the 
Golden  Rule  in  everyday  life,  in  which  the  world  is  made  richer 
and  life  made  brighter  by  the  grip  of  a  warm  hand  and  a  kind  word. 

IT  WAS  the  first  day  of  September,  1682.    The  ship 
Welcome  was  sailing  from  the  port  of  Deal,  in 
England,  bound  for  the  distant  shores  of  the  new 
and  barbarous  western  continent — America.    On 
board  were  a  party  of  Quakers,  who  had  left  their 
homes  in  England  to  reside  in  the  new  land  of  unl^nown 
perils. 

The  leader  of  the  expedition,  stern  of  countenance 
but  gentle  of  nature,  had  obtained  a  grant  of  land  in 
the  new  country  from  King  Charles  II.,  through  the 
influence  of  his  friend,  the  Duke  of  York,  the  heir  to 
the  throne ;  and  hither  he  was  taking  his  comrades,  who 
had  been  cruelly  persecuted  by  the  English  people  on 
account  of  their  religious  beliefs.  Early  in  life,  he  had 
embraced  the  faith  of  the  Quakers,  and,  despite  the 
commands  of  his  father  and  the  ridicule  and  jeers  of 
the  people,  he  went  about  preaching  its  doctrine.  These 
people  led  purely  spiritual  lives.  They  took  no  oath, 
made  no  compliments,  removed  not  the  hat  to  king  nor 
ruler,  and  greeted  friend  and  foe  alike.  Every  day  was 
to  them  a  holy  day,  and  the  Sabbath  a  day  of  rest. 

—89-^ 


HERO  TALES 


For  more  than  a  month,  the  ship  Welcome  ploughed 
her  way  through  the  strange  waters  of  the  Atlantic. 
It  required  great  courage  to  make  the  voyage  across 
the  ocean  in  those  days,  in  the  small  sailing-vessels  of 
the  time,  which  were  but  poorly  equipped  to  meet  the 
terrible  storms.  The  passengers  huddled  together  most 
uncomfortably  in  their  small  cabin,  yet  they  willingly 
suffered,  in  order  that  they  might  have  religious  liberty. 

When  the  band  of  refugees  landed  on  the  wooded 
shores  of  America — at  Newcastle  on  the  Delaware — 
they  had  lost  one-third  of  their  number  through  an 
epidemic  of  small-pox,  which  had  visited  the  ship  dur- 
ing the  voyage.  They  were  received  into  the  little 
settlement  of  Chester,  founded  by  Swedish  immigrants, 
who  had  fled  from  their  own  country  to  America  that 
they,  too,  might  be  free  to  worship  God  in  their  own 
way. 

On  the  seventh  day  of  December,  in  1682,  the  leader 
of  the  Quakers  called  the  settlers  together.  He  ad- 
dressed them  and  called  their  attention  to  the  necessity 
of  rules  of  conduct  for  the  community.  The  key-note  of 
his  speech  was  brotherly  love,  and  from  his  speech 
grew  the  great  laws  that  were  soon  to  found  a  city  and 
establish  a  state.  The  laws  were  to  be  liberal,  allowing 
the  settlers  freedom  in  their  religion ;  and  only  one  con- 
dition was  required  of  the  office-holder ;  that  condition 
was  Christianity.  In  many  ways,  the  leader  of  the 
Quakers  showed  that  he  was  an  astute  executive,  far  in 
advance  of  the  time.  In  his  provision  for  educationhe 
appointed  a  committee  of  manners,  education  and  art, 
so  that  all  "wicked  and  scandalous  living  may  be  pre- 
vented, and  that  all  youth  may  be  trained  up  in  virtue, 
and  useful  arts  and  knowledge." 

The  settler,  upon  receiving  his  grant  of  land  on 
which  to  build  his  homestead,  traveled  through  the 

—90— 


BROTHERLY  LOVE 


forest,  abounding  with  game,  and  hewed  out  a  clearing. 
It  required  uncommon  strength  and  courage;  yet  one 
year  after  the  beginning  of  the  settlement  there  were 
more  than  one  hundred  homes;  and  in  the  following 
year  the  population  had  mounted  to  two  thousand.  The 
forests  surrounding  the  settlement  were  filled  with 
savage  Indians,  who  resented  the  encroachments  of  the 
English,  and  on  former  occasions  had  repeatedly  at- 
tacked their  settlements,  massacring  all  the  inhabitants. 
The  gentle,  brave  leader  of  this  band  of  religious  pio- 
neers studied  the  situation,  and  found  that  these  earlier 
settlers  had  treated  the  Indians  with  great  cruelty. 

One  day,  a  large  assemblage  gathered  under  a 
mighty  elm  tree.  Quakers  and  Indians  mingled  freely 
as  they  awaited  the  commencement  of  the  meeting. 
Under  the  tree  stood  the  Quaker  leader,  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  shading  his  kind  eyes.  Looking  into  the 
faces  of  the  assembled  Indians,  he  spoke  with  kindness 
and  brotherly  love. 

' '  We  meet, ' '  he  said, ' '  on  the  broad  pathway  of  good 
faith  and  good  will;  no  advantage  shall  be  taken  on 
either  side,  but  all  shall  be  openness  and  love.  The 
friendship  between  you  and  me  I  will  not  compare  to  a 
chain,  for  that  the  rains  might  rust,  or  the  falling  trees 
might  break.  "We  are  the  same  as  if  one  man's  body 
were  to  be  divided  into  two  parts ;  we  are  all  one  flesh 
and  blood." 

The  savages  were  touched  by  the  noble  words. 

''We  will  live  in  love  with  you  and  your  children," 
they  replied,  ''as  long  as  the  sun  and  moon  shall  shine." 

Thus  did  the  Quaker  leader  form  his  famous  treaty 
with  the  Indians,  and  by  his  just  and  noble  treatment, 
make  steadfast  friends  of  the  savages,  who,  though 
they  waged  war  with  the  other  colonists,  never  shed  a 
drop  of  Quaker  blood.    The  natives  kept  the  history 

—91— 


HERO  TALES 


of  the  treaty  by  means  of  strings  of  wampum,  and  often 
they  rehearsed  its  provisions.  It  was  the  only  Indian 
treaty  never  sworn  to,  and  the  only  one  never  broken. 

For  years  the  Quaker  leader  lived  with  his  com- 
rades; and,  though  he  had  been  appointed  proprietor 
of  the  great  territory,  he  gave  most  of  his  power  to  his 
people.  His  sole  ambition  seemed  to  be  to  advance 
their  interests. 

''If  I  knew  of  anything  more  that  could  make  you 
happy,  I  would  joyfully  grant  it,"  he  declared. 

It  was  in  1684  that  he  got  news  from  England  that 
the  Quakers  there  were  being  persecuted.  Giving  up 
his  own  interests,  he  sailed  for  England  to  assist  them. 
The  feeling  against  the  sect  was  very  bitter  at  that 
time  and  they  had  to  hold  their  meetings  in  secret. 
But  when  Charles  II.  died,  and  the  Duke  of  York 
ascended  the  throne,  the  Quakers  were  allowed  free- 
dom in  their  beliefs,  and  the  good  Quaker  leader  was 
permitted  to  go  about  the  country,  preaching  the  doc- 
trines of  his  faith.  Wlien  he  died,  on  the  thirteenth  of 
May,  1718,  his  friends,  the  Indians,  sent  a  message  to 
his  widow  expressing  their  great  grief,  at  the  loss  of 
their  ''brother  Onas." 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  founding  of  the  City  of 
Brotherly  Love — Philadelphia — and  of  the  good 
Quaker,  whose  lands,  known  as  "Penn's  Woods,"  be- 
came the  great  commonwealth  of  Pennsylvania; — the 
tale  of  a  man  who,  like  the  poet's  hero,  Abou  Ben 
Adhem,  loved  his  fellow-men — William  Penn. 


'A  man  not  perfect,  but  of  heart 
So  high,  of  such  heroic  rage. 

That  even  his  hopes  became  a  part 
Of  earth's  eternal  heritage." 

—92— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    SCHOOLMASTER 
WHO  DIED  FOR  HIS  COUNTRY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  schoolmaster 
who,  when  standing  before  a  martyr's  death  or  a  traitor's 
life,  choose  death,  and  regretted  that  he  could  not  live  again 
to  make  the  same  choice.     It  is  an  old  story  that  will  ever  be  new, 
for  it  brings  a  throb  to  the  heart  and  makes  one  glad  to  be  an  American. 

WHILE   monuments   have   been   reared   in 
many  cities  throughout  America  to  this 
boy  of  twenty- two  years,  his  ashes  lie — 
no  one  knows  where.     Somewhere  under 
the  great  towering  structures  of  America's  greatest 
metropolis  this  youthful  hero  lies  buried. 

As  the  son  of  good  parents,  he  was  sent  to  Yale 
College ;  then  he  taught  school.  On  the  eighteenth  of 
April,  in  1775,  this  youth  was  the  master  of  a  grammar- 
school  in  New  London,  Connecticut.  The  American 
spirit  of  independence  was  arousing  its  fighting  blood. 
The  townsmen  had  gathered  to  hear  the  news,  and 
decided  upon  action.  The  young  school-teacher  listened 
intently.    Then  rising  to  his  feet,  he  shouted: 

"Let  us  march  immediately,  and  never  lay  down 

our  arms  until  we  have  obtained  our  independence." 

The  gathering  broke  into  spontaneous  shouts  of 

approval.     The  fire  of  liberty  was  enkindled  in  their 

hearts. 

Washington  was  calling  for  volunteers  to  follow 
him  under  the  new  flag,  but  the  fear  of  the  great  British 

—93— 


HERO  TALES 


Empire  was  such  that  few  dared  respond.  It  was  then 
that  young  Nathan  Hale,  a  captain  in  Knowlton's 
Rangers,  cahuly  decided  that  it  was  his  duty  to  respond 
to  Washington's  call,  and  brushing  aside  the  vehement 
protests  of  his  friends,  he  exclaimed:  "I  desire  only 
to  be  useful." 

A  few  days  later  he  was  in  the  camp  of  the  American 
army. 

No  nation  ever  needed  men  more  than  did  the  Amer- 
ican people  at  this  moment.  Darker,  if  possible,  than 
the  winter  at  Valley  Forge,  were  the  summer  days 
following  the  Declaration  of  Independence  in  1776. 
The  defeats  at  the  battles  of  Long  Island  had  wrung  the 
great  heart  of  Washington  with  anguish. 

Young  Captain  Hale  held  a  hurried  conference  with 
Washington,  and  then  mysteriously  disappeared  from 
camp.  A  few  days  later,  he  was  following  the  Con- 
necticut shore  eastward,  disguised  as  a  country  school- 
master. Still  a  few  days  later  he  was  entering  the 
British  camps  in  Long  Island,  and  soon  became  friendly 
with  the  British  officers  about  New  York. 

In  less  than  two  weeks  he  had  completed  drawings 
of  all  their  fortifications,  and  taken  in  Latin  copious 
notes  of  his  observations,  which  he  kept  between  the 
soles  of  his  shoes. 

All  this  was  but  the  risk  of  war,  as  when  one  calmly 
marches  and  sleeps  under  fire ;  but  there  were  no  cheers 
nor  colors,  nor  companionship,  save  the  whispers  of  an 
approving  conscience,  and  the  applause  of  duty  done. 
War  is  romantic,  and  appeals  to  the  youth  and  man  of 
action. 

A  man  never  knows,  however,  when  he  is  to  be  called 
to  test  his  heroism.  The  ''village  schoolmaster"  had 
]jerformed  his  duty.  He  had  entered  and  safely  left 
the  British  ranks  as  a  spv,  without  suspicion.    More- 

—94— 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER 


over,  he  had  secured  important  infoiination  that  might 
rend  the  New  World  from  the  grasp  of  the  Old  World, 
and  establish  a  new  republic  on  the  western  hemisphere. 

As  he  passed  along  the  road  a  British  officer  ap- 
proached. 

' '  Halt, ' '  he  exclaimed. 

The  "village  schoolmaster'*  was  ordered  to  throw 
up  his  hands.  A  search  of  his  body  was  made.  The 
precious  documents  were  found  in  their  hiding-place. 

His  elated  captors  first  took  him  aboard  a  British 
man-of-war,  as  a  precious  jewel  for  safe-keeping,  but 
later,  that  same  afternoon,  he  was  conveyed  to  General 
Howe's  headquarters  in  New  York  City.  Here,  with- 
out even  the  pretense  of  a  trial,  he  was  summarily  con- 
demned to  be  executed  at  sunrise  on  the  following 
morning. 

The  flying  hours  of  this  last  awful  night  were  made 
more  horrible  by  the  gross  brutalities  of  the  provost- 
marshal  in  charge. 

*'May  I  have  a  minister?"  asked  the  young  hero, 
who  now  knew  that  he  was  to  meet  his  Maker. 

' '  No ! "  replied  the  British  officer. 

"May  I  have  a  Bible!"  asked  Captain  Hale. 

"No!"  growled  the  provost-marshal. 

A  more  kindly  English  officer  took  pity  on  the 
youthful  martyr,  and  prevailed  on  the  guard  to  trans- 
fer him  from  the  common  guard-house  to  the  officer's 
own  tent,  that  in  comparative  seclusion  he  might  con- 
sole his  last  hours  by  devotion,  and  write  brief  mes- 
sages to  loved  ones. 

Hale's  manly  and  fearless  bearing  had  so  stung 
the  officer  in  command,  that  these  farewell  messages — 
to  his  mother,  his  sweetheart  and  also  one  to  a  soldier 
comrade — ^were  seized,  and  torn  to  shreds  before  his 
eyes. 

—95— 


HERO  TALES 


In  the  gray  and  chilly  dawn  he  was  hurried  out  to 
the  orchard. 

The  angered  provost  purposely  gave  the  final  or- 
ders prematurely : 

' '  The  rebels  shall  never  know  they  have  a  man  who 
can  die  with  such  firmness ! "  he  declared. 

To  the  greater  anger  of  the  officer,  he  found  on  ar- 
rival at  the  gallows  that  the  crowd  had  already  gath- 
ered in  expectancy  of  the  execution. 

The  young  captain  stood  before  the  lines  of  British 
red-coats,  his  six-foot  figure  athletic  and  erect.  There 
was  not  a  tremor  of  fear  on  his  face.  He  stood  calm 
and  resigned. 

The  hemp  rope  was  lowered  from  the  limb  of  the 
tree  and  placed  about  his  neck. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?"  growled  the  British 
officer. 

The  young  captain,  only  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
his  noble  head  raised  high,  and  his  chest  bared,  looked 
into  the  face  of  the  officer. 

His  words  were  low : 

"I  only  regret  that  I  have  but  one  life  to  lose  for 
my  country. ' ' 

These  words  have  since  burned  in  the  hearts  of  men 
for  more  than  a  century. 

In  all  the  stories  of  mankind  is  there  a  more  heroic 
death  than  this?  The  honorable  execution  of  the 
soldier  is  to  be  shot;  and  his  wounds  are  badges  of 
honor.  Nathan  Hale  was  hfinged  in  ignominy  and  met 
his  death  with  a  fearlessness  that  became  joyful  resig- 
nation, and  a  heroism  that  glowed  into  exultation. 

He  was  buried  by  the  British  in  their  camp  some- 
where in  an  orchard  on  Manhattan  Island,  near  the 
present  Franklin  Square. 


—96— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  CAVALRYMAN  WHO 
TURNED  DEFEAT  INTO  VICTORY 


This  Is  the  tale  of  the  cavalryman 
who  Inspired  a  retreating  army  to  stand  against  the 
foe  and  led  them  to  victory.    It  is  a  tale  of  a  daring  ride 
Into  the  face  of  death,  which  will  fill  the  heart  of  every  Amer- 
ican as  long  as  the  pulse  of  man  is  stirred  by  the  impulse  of  chivalry. 

THE  day  was  the  nineteenth  of  October,  in  1864. 
A  Union  soldier,  wearing  the  uniform  of  a 
general  of  cavalry,  received  word  at  "Win- 
chester, in  Virginia,  that  a  great  battle  was  in 
progress  at  Cedar  Creek,  nineteen  miles  away. 

In  the  windows  of  the  houses  of  the  citizens  of  the 
town,  all  Southern  sympathizers,  he  could  see  gleeful 
faces,  smiling  as  though  they  had»  received  some  secret 
and  welcome  information  from  the  battlefield. 

Hurriedly  mounting  his  horse,  the  officer  started  for 
the  scene  of  battle,  anxious  to  see  what  caused  this  dis- 
quieting state  of  affairs,  and  whether  he  might  not  be 
needed  at  the  front. 

It  was  during  the  last  year  of  the  fearful  conflict 
between  the  North  and  South.  The  officer  had  been 
called  to  Washington  to  confer  with  the  government 
officials,  and  was  on  his  return  to  his  command  when 
the  tidings  of  battle  reached  him. 

Through  the  crowds  in  the  streets  of  the  town,  he 
plunged  his  horse,  and  rode  for  a  short  distance  on  the 
country  road,  but  he  was  forced  to  take  to  the  fields, 

—97— 


HERO  TALES 


because  of  the  throngs  of  wounded  men  returning  from 
the  front.  Two  miles  from  "Winchester,  the  general 
met  a  supply-wagon.  The  driver  reported  that,  hear- 
ing that  the  whole  Union  army  was  retreating,  he  had 
started  back  for  "Winchester.  Spurring  his  black 
charger,  "Rienzi"  into  a  gallop,  the  officer  dashed  on. 

His  first  halt  was  at  Newtown,  where  he  met  an  army 
chaplain,  astride  a  jaded  horse,  making  with  all  haste 
for  the  rear. 

' '  Where  are  you  going  ? ' '  asked  the  officer. 

''All  is  lost,"  stammered  the  frightened  chaplain, 
' '  hut  everything  will  be  all  right  when  you  get  there. ' ' 

Yet,  the  chaplain,  despite  his  confidence  in  the  of- 
ficer, still  kept  on  his  retreat  and  disappeared  down  the 
road. 

The  general's  features  grew  set  and  stern  as  the 
awful  din  of  the  battle  came  nearer  and  nearer.  In  his 
eyes  there  came  that  piercing  red  glint  that  had  been 
seen  there  before  when  a  battle  threatened  to  go  against 
him.  The  stream  of  retreating  men,  ever  clogging  the 
way,  was  enough  to  dishearten  any  commander.  He 
passed  a  group  of  straggling  soldiers,  and  without 
slackening  his  gallop,  waved  his  hat  and  pointed  to  the 
front.  It  was  enough.  One  look  at  that  face,  one 
glimpse  of  that  heroic  gesture,  and  their  own  hats  were 
in  the  air,  while  their  wearied  feet  immediately  turned 
and  eagerly  rushed  back  to  the  battlefield. 

Cheer  on  cheer  greeted  the  gallant  officer  as  he 
dashed  forward.  The  effect  of  his  presence  was  elec- 
trical. He  uttered  never  a  word  of  reproach,  never  an 
oath;  the  secret  of  his  power  was  his  simple,  brave 
enthusiasm,  which  thrilled  his  men  as  he  shouted : 

"Turn  iDack,  men.  Turn  back.  We  must  all  face 
the  other  way." 

The  wavering  and  discouraged  troopers  obeyed  him 
—98— 


THE  CAVALRYMAN 


without  argument  or  parley,  the  great  forward  move- 
ment gaining  recruits  at  every  step.  For  miles  in  the 
rear,  as  the  gallant  officer  galloped  onward  to  the  front, 
the  roads  and  fields  adjacent  were  thronged  with  men 
pressing  on  after  him.  With  a  final  dash  the  general 
was  among  his  men. 

''Sheridan !  Sheridan !"  rang  the  shout  from  a  thou- 
sand throats  as  the  gallant  officer  wheeled  his  horse 
before  his  men.  His  mere  presence  had  the  effect  of 
restoring  their  waning  courage.  They  threw  them- 
selves into  the  fray  with  new  fury.  The  charging  Con- 
federates were  perplexed.  The  hitherto  weak  and  yield- 
ing line  of  Union  soldiers  now  resisted  their  attack  with 
the  solidity  of  a  stone  wall.  The  Confederates  were 
thrown  back,  bruised  and  bleeding. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  Confederate 
line  rose  as  one  man  and  ru.shed  at  the  Union  line  of 
soldiers  in  a  final  desperate  charge.  The  withering- 
fire  which  greeted  them  did  not  halt  them.  Colors  fell, 
only  to  be  eagerly  caught  up  again;  men  fell  unheeded. 
On  they  came,  until,  when  they  were  almost  hand  to 
hand  with  their  foes,  the  fearful  fire  of  reinforcements 
overpowered  them  and  they  turned  and  fled.  For  seven 
miles  the  chase  was  forced — the  Confederates  were 
completely  routed. 

The  courageous  cavalryman  by  his  ride  from  Win- 
chester not  only  rallied  his  fleeing  army,  and  recap- 
tured his  camp,  but  drove  the  Confederates  in  head- 
long flight  and  took  their  supplies  and  cannon. 

There  never  were  braver  men  than  these  Southern 
soldiers,  pitted  against  an  army  in  conflict,  but  nothing 
could  withstand  the  inspiring  leadership  of  that  un- 
daunted officer,  who  snatched  the  brand  of  victory  from 
the  consuming  flame  of  defeat— Philip  H.  Sheridan, 


«99-  9l404^ 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    EXPLORER   WHO 
FOUND  A  DARK  CONTINENT 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  journalist 
who  entered  the  jungles  of  barbarisnn  In  search  of  a 
nnissionary  who  had  been  lost  while  carrying  the  torch  of  a 
Christian  civilization  into  its  depths,  and  who  revealed  to  the  world 
a  dark  continent  with   its   wonderful    lakes   and    incomparable   riches. 

T  WAS  at  a  time  when  the  unknown  regions  of 
Central  Africa  were  appealing  to  the  courage  and 
hardihood  of  men  and  daring  them  to  penetrate 
its  mysteries.  The  world  knew  much  about  north- 
ern Africa ;  especially  Egypt  and  Morocco  and  Algiers ; 
and  it  knew  something  about  its  extreme  south;  but 
there  were  in  the  central  part  of  that  continent,  vast 
regions  of  rich  land,  through  which  ran  mighty  rivers, 
and  about  which  the  outside  world  knew  nothing. 

In  the  year  1840,  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  cen- 
tered upon  one  David  Livingstone,  a  Scotch  mission- 
ary, who  entered  the  jungle-land  to  minister  to  the 
innumerable  black  races  that  wandered  over  its  vast 
domain. 

Thirty  years  passed,  and  the  voice  of  the  great 
Livingstone  came  back  to  civilization,  with  an  appeal 
for  help  to  save  a  continent  rich  beyond  the  mind  of 
man  to  compute.  Messages  proclaiming  the  discovery 
of  the  great  lakes  and  rivers  in  the  interior  of  the  vast 
wilderness  came  back  to  the  world.  Then  the  voice 
ceased.    Not  a  word  was  heard  from  the  man  who  had 

—100— 


THE  EXPLORER 


become  the  greatest  explorer  of  his  generation.  Months 
passed,  but  still  there  was  no  cry  from  the  jnngle- 
depths  of  the  sleeping  continent. 

' '  Where  is  Livingstone  1 ' '  was  the  query  on  the  lips 
of  the  civilized  nations. 

The  world  called  for  a  man  who  would  offer  himself 
to  the  cause  of  humanity  and  volunteer  to  enter  the 
darkness  of  barbarism  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the 
impenetrable  silence. 

''I'll  go,"  came  the  reply. 

It  was  a  young  war-correspondent  of  a  great  Amer- 
ican journal  who  spoke.  He  was  but  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  but  he  had  met  the  world  square  in  the 
face  since  the  day  that  he  came  into  it,  for  at  three 
years  of  age  he  had  been  left  parentless  in  an  English 
alms-house,  and  at  fifteen  he  had  come  to  America  as  a 
cabin-boy  on  a  ship  that  had  entered  the  port  of  New 
Orleans.  He  was  adopted  by  a  merchant,  whose  name 
he  took  in  place  of  that  given  him  at  his  birth. 

This  volunteer  had  always  lived  close  to  the  heart 
of  mankind.  At  twenty-one  years  of  age  he  had  stood 
on  the  battle-line  in  the  great  American  Civil  war,  and 
at  its  close  he  had  followed  the  British  army  into  Abys- 
sinia, whence  he  had  sent  to  the  world  the  first  news 
of  its  conquest. 

It  was  on  the  sixth  day  of  January,  in  1871,  that  the 
young  journalist  reached  Zanzibar,  on  the  coast  of 
Africa.  He  had  entered  upon  his  mission  in  secrecy, 
and  the  world  knew  little  of  him  or  his  journey. 

The  difficulties  that  beset  him  were  almost  beyond 
human  endurance.  It  was  on  the  twenty-first  of  March 
when  he,  with  two  hundred  natives  who  he  had  hired 
for  a  year's  journey,  started  into  the  interior.  His 
half-savage  companions  muttered  in  a  strange  tongue 
and  looked  upon  him  with  suspicion.    The  young  ex- 

—101— 


HERO  TALES 


plorer  knew  not  the  moment  when  his  own  body-guard 
might  slay  him.  Every  hour  brought  his  little  army 
into  encounters  with  savage  beasts  or  savage  tribes. 
It  was  only  his  patience,  bravery  and  resourcefulness 
that  kept  him  alive.  Every  moment  of  the  day  tested 
his  courage,  but  he  always  showed  the  same  fearless- 
ness that  he  had  displayed  long  before  in  the  great 
American  war,  when,  escaping  from  his  guards  after 
he  had  been  made  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  he 
swam  across  a  river  amid  a  storm  of  bullets. 

It  was  in  June  that  this  strange  expedition  entered 
the  native  village  of  Unyanyembe,  in  the  wilds  of  the 
African  continent.  Hunger  and  disease  had  claimed 
many  sacrifices.  Some  of  his  men  had  been  taken  by 
sickness  and  death;  others  had  lost  their  lives  in  en- 
counters with  beasts ;  still  others  had  been  seized  with 
superstitions  and  deserted,  while  still  others  had  been 
rebellious,  including  two  giant  black  men  who  plotted 
mutiny  against  him;  but  the  explorer's  courage  was 
strong,  and  with  but  fifty-four  men  remaining,  he  ad- 
vanced further  into  the  interior,  aided  by  the  advice  of 
three  faithful  guides  who  had  taken  similar  journeys 
before. 

The  months  wore  on  until  the  twenty-eighth  of  Oc- 
tober. The  American  journalist,  haggard  and  worn 
from  two  hundred  and  thirty-six  days  of  jungle 
dangers,  entered  the  little  village  of  Ujiji,  on  the  north- 
east coast  of  the  great  Tanganyika.  A  cry  that  a 
strange  white  man  had  arrived  went  through  the  tribe 
and  a  crowd  of  black  natives  soon  surrounded  him. 

The  spokesman  for  the  tribe  was  a  giant  black,  with 
a  huge  nose  and  lips,  rings  in  his  ears,  and  bands  of 
brass  about  his  ankles  and  wrists. 

He  advanced  toward  the  white  intruder  and  with  a 
low  bow,  exclaimed  in  pure  English: 

—102— 


THE  EXPLORER 


''Good  morning,  sir." 

The  white  man  was  astounded.  To  hear  his  native 
tongue  in  this  weird  jungle-land  filled  him  with  wonder- 
ment. How  had  this  savage  learned  these  words  of 
civilization? 

Then  the  truth  dawned  upon  him. 

"I  am  a  Susi,"  said  the  tribesman,  ''Dr.  Living- 
stone's servant." 

Stanley  was  nearly  overcome.  Could  it  be  true  that 
he  stood  face  to  face  with  the  object  for  which  he  had 
for  months  risked  his  life? 

' '  Is  Dr.  Livingstone  near  ? "  he  inquired. 

The  tribesman  took  his  arm  and  led  him  through 
the  gathering  of  natives,  to  a  clan  of  Arabs,  whose 
dark  faces  were  protected  by  hoods.  In  their  midst 
stood  a  white-haired  old  man,  whose  countenance  was 
furrowed  with  lines  of  self-denial,  sacrifice,  and  suf- 
fering. It  was  the  white  face  of  modern  civilization. 
The  young  American's  heart  throbbed  with  emotion. 
Then,  knowing  that  self-control  is  the  greatest  quality 
in  final  triumph,  he  removed  his  hat,  baring  his  head 
and  advanced. 

"Dr.  Livingstone,  I  presume,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  was  the  firm  reply. 

As  the  young  American  journalist  grasped  the  hand 
of  the  lost  missionary  and  imparted  to  him  the  greet- 
ings of  the  civilized  world,  delivering  to  him  the  writ- 
ten messages  from  his  own  beloved  children,  the  eyes 
of  both  of  the  great  explorers  were  blinded  by  tears  of 
thanksgiving. 

"What  would  I  have  not  given,"  said  the  American 
journalist  after  the  excitement  had  subsided,  "for  a 
bit  of  friendly  wilderness  where,  unseen,  I  might  vent 
my  joy  ill  some  mad  freak,  such  as  idiotically  biting 
my  hand,  turning  a  somersault,  or  slashing  at  a  tree, 

—103— 


HERO  TALES 


in  order  to  give  vent  to  the  excitement  whicli  was  well- 
nigh  uncontrollable.  My  heart  beats  fast,  but  I  must 
not  let  my  face  betray  my  emotions,  lest  it  should  de- 
tract from  the  dignity  of  a  white  man  appearing  under 
such  extraordinary  circumstances." 

The  two  men  remained  together  in  the  heart  of 
Africa  for  four  months,  until  the  following  February, 
in  1872,  when  they  parted  forever,  Livingstone  starting 
on  the  journey  from  which  he  never  returned,  and  the 
journalist  making  his  way  back  to  Europe  to  tell  the 
world  of  the  greatest  feat  of  exploration  which  the  age 
had  known. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  enterprise  of  American 
journalism  which  discovered  Livingstone.  It  is  also 
the  story  of  the  finding  by  a  young  American  journalist, 
of  his  life-work ;  for  it  was  this  journey,  in  the  cause 
of  humanity,  that  stirred  his  ambition  to  explore  Cen- 
tral Africa,  and  resulted  in  the  gift  to  the  world  of  Lake 
Victoria  Nyanza,  the  largest  body  of  fresh  water  on 
the  globe,  with  an  area  of  forty  thousand  square  miles ; 
and  the  throwing  open  of  the  darkest  continent  of  the 
earth  to  the  light  of  civilization.  It  was  his  sincerity, 
his  courage,  and  the  unselfish  pursuit  of  a  great  hu- 
mane mission  that  enabled  him  to  come  out  of  the  first 
ordeal  with  triumph,  and  to  devote  himself  still  further 
to  the  great  work  of  African  exploration. 

Thus  it  was  that  a  young  journalist  received  the 
decoration  of  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor;  gained 
the  friendship  of  the  monarchs  of  the  Old  World; 
founded  the  great  Congo  Free  State,  which  in  its  opu- 
lence has  become  the  envy  of  the  governments  of  Eu- 
rope; and  became  the  greatest  explorer  of  his  age — 
Henry  M.  Stanley. 


^104— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  ADMIRAL  WHO  UN- 
FURLED THE  FLAG  IN  THE  ORIENT 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  son 
of  the  granite  hills  who  followed  the  flag  of  his  country 
throughout  a  long   life  and  crowned  .his  old  age   by  carry- 
ing It  victoriously  into  the  seas  of  the  Ancient  East  and  plant- 
ing  American    civilization    on   the   rich    islands  of  the   Golden  Orient. 

IT  "WAS  a  cold,  bleak  day  in  December  in  the  year 
1837.  In  the  town  of  Montpelier,  in  Vermont,  in 
a  house  nearly  opposite  the  beautiful  state 
capitol  building,  a  boy  came  into  the  world — the 
heir  to  generations  of  American  patriotism.  His  boy- 
hood was  passed  in  the  usual  way  of  the  normal 
American  lad.  He  was  a  leader  in  their  sports  and  ex- 
celled in  their  various  games.  At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he 
entered  a  military  school.  His  ambition  was  to  become 
a  great  soldier.  Disappointed  at  not  securing  an  ap- 
pointment to  West  Point,  his  desire  turned  to  An- 
napolis, and  there  he  went,  graduating  in  1858,  fifth  in 
a  class  of  over  sixty  cadets. 

The  young  midshipman  entered  the  navy  of  the 
United  States  and  for  two  years  ranged  the  Mediter- 
ranean sea,  performing  his  duties  so  well  that  he  won 
commendation  from  his  superior  officers,  and  was  soon 
commissioned  as  lieutenant.  When  the  conflict  be- 
tween the  North  and  South  broke  out,  he  served  with 
the  great  Farragut,  and  at  the  close  of  hostilities,  he 
had  reached  the  rank  of  lieutenant-commander. 

—105— 


HERO  TALES 


The  years  passed  and  the  daring  naval  officer  fol- 
lowed his  duties  along  the  old  adage,  "in  time  of  peace, 
prepare  for  war."  The  last  days  in  1897,  found  this 
son  of  the  Vermont  hills  in  command  of  the  Asiatic 
squadron  in  the  China  sea,  his  pennant  flying  from  the 
flagstaff  of  the  Olympia. 

The  news  of  the  destruction  of  the  American  battle- 
ship Maine,  in  the  harbor  of  Havana,  flashed  around  the 
earth,  under  sea  and  over  land,  to  the  commander  of 
the  Asiatic  squadron.  The  hearts  of  his  men  burned 
with  resentment  at  the  insult  offered  to  their  flag,  the 
emblem  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  throughout  the 
world.  Anxiously  they  waited  for  the  declaration  of 
war.  The  crews  drilled  constantly  in  the  use  of  the 
great  guns  and  smaller  arms.  The  ships  assumed  their 
war-coats  of  gray. 

All  was  ready  when  the  order  came  from  their  far- 
off  native  land,  America:  "Proceed  against  the 
Spanish  fleet  in  Asiatic  seas  and  blow  it  out  of  the 
water." 

It  was  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  April,  in  1898.  The 
American  fleet,  hoisting  their  anchors,  sped  out  over 
the  sea.  Seven  hundred  miles  to  the  south,  in  the  port 
of  Manila,  the  stronghold  of  Old  Spain  in  the  Far  East, 
lay  the  Spanish  fleet.  Five  days  later  the  huge  forms 
of  the  American  battleships  came  out  of  the  mists  that 
enshrouded  the  seas  and  loomed  like  ghostly  spectres 
off  the  coast  of  the  ancient  Philippines.  Spanish  cun- 
ning had  strewn  death  on  the  bed  of  the  ocean  and 
mines  were  planted  in  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  to 
blow  up  any  ship  that  dared  to  try  to  enter  the  bay  of 
Manila.  The  banks  of  the  passage  were  lined  with 
batteries  of  great  cannon. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night.  The  American  battle- 
fleet  was  in  darkness.     Not  a  light  was  shining  from  the 

—106— 


THE  ADMIRAL 


mouster  ships.  Led  by  the  flagship  Oh/mpia,  silently 
they  moved  along,  mile  after  mile,  without  a  sign  from 
the  enemy.  The  sailors,  stationed  at  their  posts, 
watched  the  dark  shores  anxiously,  expecting  moment- 
arily, the  rending  crash  of  a  mine. 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Olympia,  stood  the  man  from 
the  Granite  hills,  calm  and  alert.  A  bright  light  sprang 
up  on  shore.  An  answering  signal  flashed  out,  and  a 
hissing  rocket  rushed  toward  the  heavens. 

''It  has  taken  them  a  long  time  to  wake  up,"  said 
the  commodore,  with  a  gleam  of  humor  in  his  eagle 
eye. 

He  showed  no  more  concern  at  these  signals  of 
death  than  if  his  ships  were  on  parade,  instead  of  going 
into  battle.  Suddenly,  there  was  a  tremendous  roar. 
The  first  Spanish  shell  went  shrieking  over  the  Ameri- 
can ships.  The  American  fleet  had  now  entered  the 
bay,  and  were  face  to  face  with  the  Spanish  guns. 

The  hours  of  the  night  dragged  slowly.  Not  a  man 
was  permitted  to  leave  his  station,  but  half  of  the  crew 
were  allowed  to  lie  down  by  their  guns,  and  get  what 
little  sleep  they  could,  in  the  intense  heat  of  the  tropical 
night. 

The  first  rays  of  dawn  flickered  over  the  battleships. 
It  was  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May.  A  flash  from 
a  land  battery  shot  out  through  the  mist.  There  was  a 
torrent  of  water.  Two  great  geysers  seemed  to  lift 
the  sea  into  the  clouds,  thrown  up  by  submerged  mines. 

"There!"  exclaimed  the  commodore,  "they  have 
some  mines,  after  all. ' ' 

The  flagship  Olympia  rocked  in  the  tempestuous 
water. 

* '  Hold  her  as  close  in  as  the  water  will  let  you,  but 
be  careful  not  to  touch  bottom,"  ordered  the  commo- 
dore to  the  officer  directing  the  course  of  the  ship. 

—107— 


HERO  TALES 


Bursting  shell  and  shrieking  shot  filled  the  air,  as 
the  Spaniards  hurled  their  defiance  at  the  Americans. 
The  advancing  American  ships  were  silent  as  they 
drew  nearer  the  smoke-clouded  Spanish  vessels.  The 
strain  on  the  American  sailors  was  terrific  as  they  stood 
inactive  under  the  terrible  rain  of  steel.  On  the  bridge 
stood  the  gallant  commander,  calmly  watching  the 
actions  of  the  enemy.  In  perfect  formation  the  great 
battleships  filed  along,  one  after  the  other. 

''You  may  fire  when  you  are  ready,  Gridley."  The 
words  of  the  great  commander  were  calm  and  de- 
liberate. 

With  a  fearful  crash,  the  guns  spoke  their  answer 
to  the  order.  In  single  file,  the  great  battleships  sailed 
along,  parallel  to  the  Spanish  fleet,  pouring  in  a  con- 
tinual and  terrific  bombardment.  Down  the  line  they 
passed  with  their  rain  of  death,  and,  at  the  end,  they 
gracefully  swept  around  and  came  back  on  the  same 
course  into  the  center  of  the  battle,  steel  shell  meeting 
steel  ship,  amid  the  roaring  of  unleashed  guns. 

The  gallant  conmiander  pacing  the  bridge,  unmind- 
ful of  the  plunging  shell  about  him,  was  gazing  at  the 
battle,  intent  only  upon  the  performance  of  his  duty. 

For  two  hours  the  opposing  ships  hurled  their  fear- 
ful deluge  of  shell  upon  each  other. 

At  seven  o'clock,  having  run  five  times  the  course 
of  death,  the  American  ships  withdrew.  A  sailor  ran 
up  to  an  officer,  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  choking 
voice  cried:  ''Why  are  we  stopping  now?  We  have 
got  them  licked  and  can  finish  them  in  one  more  round." 

' '  Take  it  easy, ' '  replied  the  officer  calmly.  ' '  We  are 
only  stopping  for  breakfast,  and  we  will  finish  them 
off  to  your  heart's  content  after  we  have  had  something 
to  eat." 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  American  ships  were  again 
—108— 


THE  ADMIRAL 


in  action,  moving  into  the  tumult  of  the  bay  like  raging 
demons. 

Then  their  crews  gave  mighty  shouts.  The  mouths 
of  the  hot  cannon  were  silent.  The  smoke  in  the  harbor 
lifted  like  a  veil,  and  there,  floating  over  the  silenced 
Spanish  guns,  waved  the  white  flag  of  surrender. 

The  greatest  naval  battle  of  modern  times  was  over ; 
the  destiny  of  two  nations  was  decided;  the  flag  of 
American  civilization  waved  over  the  Spanish  islands 
in  the  Far  East,  ushering  in  the  dawn  of  a  new  epoch 
there ;  and  through  it  all  not  an  American  life  had  been 
sacrificed  and  only  seven  had  been  injured,  a  modern 
miracle. 

The  enthusiasm  upon  the  return  of  the  great  com- 
modore to  his  native  land,  and  the  ovation  given  him 
and  his  men  as  they  sailed  into  the  harbor  of  New 
York,  have  never  been  equalled  since  the  days  of  the 
Eomans,  when  they  welcomed  the  return  of  their  vic- 
torious heroes.  For  two  days  the  great  metropolis 
went  wild  with  exultation — feting,  cheering,  and  wor- 
shipping the  hero  of  Manila  Bay.  The  Government  be- 
stowed its  highest  honors  upon  George  Dewey,  the  man 
from  the  Granite  hills — and  made  him  an  admiral. 


"Go  forth  in  hope!    Go  forth  in  might! 
To  all  your  nobler  self  be  true, 
That  coming  times  may  see  in  you 
The  vanguard  of  the  hosts  of  light. 

"Though  wrathful  justice  load  and  train 
Your  guns,  be  every  breach  they  make 
A  gateway  pierced  for  mercy's  sake 
That  peace  may  enter  in  and  reign." 


—109— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    SCIENTIST    WHO 
APPEALED  TO  A  HEEDLESS  WORLD 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  scientist 
who  tried  to  reveal  to  civilization  one  of  fits  secret  forces,  but 
was  scoffed   and   rejected,  until  in  despair  he  was  about  to  give 
up  the  struggle  against  public  opinion  and   poverty,  when  the  world 
listened  at  the  last  moment  and  was  startled  by  his  marvelous  power. 

IT  WAS  in  October,  in  the  year  1832.  On  board  the 
packet  Sully,  bound  from  Havre,  France,  to  New 
York,  a  group  of  passengers  were  discussing  the 
theories  of  electro-magnetism.  An  American 
physician  was  describing  an  experiment  that  he  had 
witnessed  in  Paris,  in  which  electricity  had  been  suc- 
cessfully transmitted  through  a  great  length  of  wire. 
An  artist  was  listening  intently  to  the  narration,  and, 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  doctor's  remarks,  he  said :  "If 
that  is  so,  I  see  no  reason  why  messages  may  not  be 
instantaneously  transmitted."  Through  the  rest  of 
the  voyage  the  artist  was  seen  but  little  by  the  passen- 
gers. He  spent  his  days  in  his  state-room,  and  most  of 
the  time  seemed  to  be  sketching  strange  contrivances 
on  paper.  As  he  left  the  ship  at  New  York,  his  fellow 
passengers  taunted  him  on  his  seclusion. 

''Well,"  said  one  of  them,  ''I  suppose  you  have 
solved  the  problems  of  the  world." 

"I  have  solved  one  of  them,  at  the  least,"  was  the 
reply. 

It  was  three  years  later — 1835.    A  group  of  friends 
—110-^ 


THE  SCIENTIST 


were  gathered  in  the  room  of  the  artist.  Before  them 
lay  great  coils  of  wire — a  half  mile  in  length,  and  two 
crude  instruments. 

"Those  instruments,"  said  the  artist,  ''will  carry  a 
message  around  the  world." 

The  friends  were  amazed.  Then,  with  the  touch  of 
the  keys,  he  laid  before  them  the  simple  power  of  elec- 
tricity to  convey  thought  through  space. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  great  science  that  was 
to  test  the  courage  of  the  man  who  had  given  it  to  the 
world.  Various  forms  of  communicating  by  wire  had 
been  devised  by  scientists  before,  but  it  remained  for 
the  artist  to  bring  together  unsuccessful  attempts  and 
form  them  into  a  practical  method  of  transmitting  a 
message  by  that  then  little  known  element — electricity. 
Through  many  great  trials  and  difficulties  he  labored 
with  his  crude  tools  and  small  knowledge  of  the  power 
that  he  was  trying  to  bend  to  his  will.  The  commercial 
world,  which  he  was  to  revolutionize,  refused  to  con- 
sider him  seriously. 

"It  is  interesting,"  said  the  financiers,  "but  can 
never  be  put  to  practical  use." 

It  was  some  months  later  that  the  inventor,  having 
exhausted  all  his  funds  and  now  threatened  by  poverty, 
appeared  in  Washington,  and  appealed  to  Congress  for 
an  appropriation  to  build  a  telegraph-line  from  Balti- 
more to  Washington.  The  statesmen  listened  to  his 
request  with  courtesy,  but  no  action  was  taken.  The 
discouraged  inventor  was  overwhelmed  when  he  real- 
ized that  his  own  government  would  not  take  him  seri- 
ously. His  experiments  for  the  past  five  years  had 
brought  him  almost  to  penury,  and  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  interest  some  one  in  his  invention  in 
order  that  he  might  be  saved  from  hunger. 

In  his  earlier  days  he  had  studied  art  for  several 
—111— 


HERO  TALES 


years  in  Europe.  Now  he  boarded  a  packet,  and  sailed 
with  his  precious  invention  to  France,  hoping  to  con- 
vince the  foreign  powers  of  the  value  of  his  telegraph. 

''It  is  marvelous,"  they  cried,  ''but  what  is  it  good 
for?" 

Utterly  discouraged,  the  inventor  returned  to 
America,  and  again  appealed  to  Congress.  For  four 
long  years,  in  the  midst  of  his  poverty  and  trouble,  he 
haunted  the  national  Capitol. 

It  was  a  night  in  March.  The  year  was  now  1843. 
Down  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  he  wearily  trudged,  heart- 
sick and  discouraged,  wondering  what  he  could  do  to 
retain  life  in  his  body.  He  had  waited  all  through  the 
long  session  for  his  bill  to  be  introduced  for  discussion 
— only  to  meet  with  disappointment  again. 

The  next  morning,  while  engaged  in  gloomy 
thoughts,  a  message  was  brought  to  the  inventor: 
"Congress  in  the  last  hour  before  midmght,  appro- 
priated $30,000  for  your  telegraph-line." 

Only  those  who  have  struggled  through  anxious 
years  know  the  joy  that  he  felt  at  that  moment.  Imme- 
diately he  set  about  constructing  the  line  that  proved 
to  the  world  the  soundness  of  his  judgment  and  the 
practicability  of  transmitting  messages  by  electricity. 

The  first  message  passed  over  the  wires  was  in  these 
profound  words :  ' '  What  hath  God  wrought. ' '  Though 
beset  by  difficulties  that  seemed  insurmountable,  per- 
severance had  won  at  last.  A  new  and  magic  power 
had  been  given  to  the  world ;  a  power  that  has  made  and 
unmade  nations ;  that  enables  us  to  send  our  thoughts 
instantaneously  for  thousands  of  miles ;  a  power  that 
has,  over  and  over  again,  saved  human  life  and  is  sav- 
ing human  lives,  as  you  listen  to  this  tale  of  the  man 
who  invented  telegraphy— Samuel  Finley  Breese 
Morse. 

—112— 


',.  ';i^^  NEW  Y0«F^ 
f^^'^UC  LIBRARY 

[  -ASTOR,  LBMOX 


THE  TALE  OF  THE   CABIN   BOY   WHO 
BECAME  THE   FIRST  ADMIRAL 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  cabin  boy 
who  entered  the  American  navy  at  nine  years  of  age 
and  through  his  magnificent  courage  became  the  first  admiral 
under  the  American   flag.     It   is  a  tale    of    indomitable  will   that 
knows  no  defeat^  that  conquered  his  foes  and  the  homage  of  the  world. 

IT  WAS  the  month  of  August,  in  1864.  The  naval 
history  of  the  world  offers  no  more  thrilling  adven- 
tures than  those  of  the  daring  Americans  who 
were  on  the  flagship,  Hartford,  during  the  storm- 
ing^of  the  river  batteries  at  Port  Hudson,  on  the 
Mississippi,  and  the  battle  of  Mobile  Bay;  the  two 
naval  actions  of  the  Civil  War  that  did  more  than  all 
the  others  to  bring  about  a  Union  victory. 

The  captain  of  the  ship  was  a  hero  of  the  wooden- 
warship  days,  when  the  style  of  fighting  was  at  close 
range.  Fear  was  unknown  to  him,  and  it  was  through 
daring  to  do  the  seemingly  impossible,  that  he  won  his 
brilliant  victories,  and  made  for  himself  a  name  that 
will  live  as  long  as  the  history  of  the  United  States  navy 
is  remembered — David  Glascoe  Farragut. 

Farragut  was  in  his  fifty-third  year,  when  his 
greatest  triumph  was  accomplished.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  being  a  Virginian,  he  was  looked  upon  with 
a  little  suspicion  by  the  Navy  Department,  but  finally, 
was  given  a  chance  to  display  his  patriotism. 

On  this  August  day,  Farragut 's  fleet  of  seventeen 
—113— 


HERO  TALES 


ships  drew  up  outside  of  Mobile  Bay,  prepared  to 
attempt  the  most  hazardous  feat  in  their  career.  Par- 
ragut,  having  opened  the  Mississippi  Eiver,  in  the  face 
of  tremendous  odds,  now  undertook  to  enter  INfobile 
Bay.  The  entrance  to  the  channel  was  guarded  by 
Fort  Morgan,  mounting  some  fifty  guns.  One  hundred 
and  eighty  tin  torpedoes  were  anchored  in  the  channel, 
leaving  a  space  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  wide,  and 
directly  under  the  guns  of  the  fort,  which  boats  enter- 
ing the  harbor  must  pass.  This  opening  was  marked 
with  red  buoys,  in  order  that  blockade-runners  might 
pass  in  and  out,  but  the  marks  served  equally  well  for 
Farragut.  Inside  the  bay  was  a  small  Confederate 
squadron,  consisting  of  the  ram,  Tennessee,  and  the 
gunboats,  Morgan,  Gaines,  and  Selma.  This  was  the 
blockade  which  Farragut  undertook  to  break  through. 
He  was  to  attempt  it  when  the  flood  tide  would 
help  to  sweep  his  vessels  through  the  channel,  with  the 
help  of  a  southwest  wind  that  was  blowing.  Farragut 
figured  on  the  wind  blowing  the  smoke  from  the  guns 
into  the  eyes  of  the  gunners  in  the  fort,  and  thus  mak- 
ing it  more  difficult  for  them  to  take  aim.  With  wind 
and  tide  to  meet  his  requirements,  Farragut  drew  up 
his  fleet  for  the  battle.  Cruisers  and  gunboats  were 
lashed  together,  in  order  to  tow  the  vessel  which  was 
exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  forts,  out  of  range,  if  it  became 
disabled.  The  line  was  formed  with,  the  Brooklyn 
(lashed  to  the  Octorara),  leading.  Next  came  the 
Hartford,  lashed  to  the  Meta-comet.  The  others  fol- 
lowed. 

In  the  bay,  the  Confederate  ship,  Tennessee,  was 
drawn  up  under  the  guns  of  the  fort,  while  close  beside 
it  lay  three  Confederate  gunboats  ready  for  action  if 
the  fort  should  be  passed. 

The  four  iron-clad  monitors  of  the  fleet,  the  Tecum- 
—114— 


THE  CABIN  BOY 


seh,  Manhattan,  Winnebago,  and  Chickasaw,  took  the 
right  of  line,  next  to  the  fort.  The  Tecumseh  was  the 
first  boat  to  move  into  the  buoy-marked  pass,  and  then 
the  battle  began.  For  a  time,  Farragut  stood  on  the 
deck,  but  the  smoke  obscuring  his  vision,  he  climbed 
into  the  rigging.  Seeing  him  standing  there,  high 
above  the  deck,  and  fearing  that  if  he  was  wounded  he 
would  fall  to  the  deck,  the  captain  of  the  Hartford 
ordered  the  quartermaster  to  tie  him  into  the  ratlines. 
This  was  done,  and,  lashed  in  the  rigging  of  his  flag- 
ship, Farragut  directed  the  battle. 

There  was  no  reply  to  the  gun  of  the  Tecumseh,  from 
the  forts.  The  gunners  were  waiting  for  the  fleet  to 
come  into  the  closest  possible  range,  but  the  Tennessee 
opened  fire  on  the  Tecumseh,  and,  regardless  of  the 
liTdden  torpedoes,  the  captain  of  the  Union  boat  ordered 
her  headed  directly  for  the  Confederate  ram.  She  had 
scarcely  left  the  "buoy-marked"  passage,  when  she 
struck  one  of  the  submerged  torpedoes.  There  was  a 
dull  roar.  The  stern  of  the  Tecumseh  rose  in  the  air, 
and  ten  seconds  later,  she  plunged  to  the  bottom,  taking 
all  her  men,  but  eight,  with  her. 

The  loss  of  the  Tecumseh  did  not  halt  Farragut. 
The  order  was  still,  "Advance."  As  the  fleet  came 
close  to  the  fort,  the  entire  battery  of  fifty  guns  opened 
fire.  But  Farragut 's  strategy  was  successful.  The 
smoke  of  the  conflict  was  blown  into  the  eyes  of  the 
gunners  of  the  fort,  and  their  fire  was  comparatively 
ineffectual. 

Suddenly,  the  Brooklyn,  leading  the  line  of  advance 
through  the  narrow  channel,  stopped.  The  entire  fleet 
was  brought  to  a  standstill,  under  the  guns  of  the  fort. 
The  deck  of  the  Hartford  became  a  fearful  sight,  and 
everything  was  in  confusion.  Delay  at  this  point, 
under  fire  of  both  the  fort  and  the  fleet,  meant  defeat. 

—115— 


HERO  TALES 


"What's  the  matter  with  the  Brooklyn f  asked 
Farragut. 

As  if  in  answer,  came  the  signal  from  the  Brooklyn, 
'■ '  Tell  the  admiral  that  there  is  a  strong  line  of  torpedoes 
ahead. ' ' 

*' Torpedoes!"  shouted  Farragut, — ''We're  going 
ahead."  Then  to  the  captain  of  the  Hartford,  "Full 
speed  ahead,  sir!" 

The  order  was  enough.  Crowding  past  the  Brooklyn, 
the  Hartford  took  the  lead  in  the  line.  Straight  for  the 
torpedoes  in  the  channel  she  headed,  and  passed  over 
them.  They  bumped  against  her  sides,  but  did  not 
explode.  The  admiral  had  expected  this.  The  tor- 
pedoes, drifted  by  the  flood  tide,  had  been  carried  into 
such  a  position  that  the  ships  did  not  hit  them  at  the 
proper  angle  to  explode  the  percussion  caps.  The 
Brooklyn  then  followed,  and  passed  the  torpedoes  in 
safety.  The  others  came  on,  discharging  broadside 
after  broadside  into  the  fort,  while,  blinded  by  the 
smoke,  the  gunners  of  the  fort  fired  wildly  at  the  fleet, 
doing  little  damage. 

In  a  comparatively  short  time,  the  entire  fleet  had 
passed  the  fort,  having  left  many  guns  dismounted  and 
scores  of  their  gunners  dead.  The  torpedoes  and  the 
fort  were  silent,  and  all  that  now  confronted  Farragut 
was  the  little  Confederate  fleet  of  one  ram  and  three 
gunboats.  The  latter  soon  surrendered,  but  the  Ten- 
nessee, a  powerful  iron-clad  vessel,  was  commanded  by 
Franklin  Buchanan,  a  stubborn  fighter,  who  feared 
no  power.  He  had  met  and  fought  each  of  the  Union 
boats  in  turn,  as  they  came  into  the  harbor.  The 
Tennessee  was  left  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  battle  alone. 
Bravely  she  faced  them,  but  one  after  another,  the 
Union  boats  rammed  her,  pouring  broadsides  into  her, 
until  battered  into  a  helpless  hulk,  she  surrendered,  and 

—116— 


THE  CABIN  BOY 


Buclianan,  the  last  defender  of  Mobile  Bay,  passed 
over  his  sword  to  the  victorious  commander  of  the 
Union  fleet. 

The  impossible  had  been  accomplished.  The  great- 
est of  Farragut's  great  undertakings  had  been  success- 
fully carried  out.  A  Union  fleet  floated  in  Mobile  Bay. 
The  forts  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  Union  forces,  and 
the  last  Confederate  seaport  stronghold  had  fallen. 
The  War  Department,  in  recognition  of  the  feat,  created 
the  office  of  Admiral  of  the  Navy,  and  it  was  bestowed 
upon  Farragut,  as  a  reward  for  a  brilliant  and  heroic 
achievement. 


"I'd  weave  a  wreath  for  those  who  fought 

In  blue  upon  the  waves, 
I  drop  a  tear  for  all  who  sleep 

Down  in  the  coral  caves, 
And  proudly  do  I  touch  my  cap 

Whene'er  I  meet  to-day 
A  man  who  sailed  with  Farragut 

Thro'  fire  in  Mobile  Bay. 

"We  count  our  dead,  we  count  our  scars, 

The  proudest  ever  worn; 
We  cheer  the  flag  that  gayly  flies 

Victorious  in  the  sun. 
No  longer  in  the  rigging  stands 

The  hero  of  the  day. 
For  he  has  linked  his  name  fore'er 

To  deathless  Mobile  Bay. 

"He  sleeps,  the  bluff  old  Commodore 

Who  led  with  hearty  will; 
But  ah!  methinl<s  I  see  him  now, 

Lashed  to  tlie  rigging  still. 
I  know  that  just  beyond  the  tide, 

In  God's  own  glorious  day, 
He  waits  to  greet  tlie  gallant  tars 

Who  fought  in  Mobile  Bay." 


—117— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TORY  FATHER  WHO 
BELIEVED  LIBERTY  WAS  A  DREAM 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  Tory  father 
who  did  not  believe  that  a  nation  could  ever  be 
reared  from  the  Declaration  of  Independence;  who  declared 
that  the  republic  could  not  long  exist  and  sacrificed  his  life  in  his 
loyalty  to  the  established  doctrine  that  the  King  ruled   by  Divine  Right. 

IN  THE  old  days  when  the  Americans  had  decided 
to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  English  rule,  and  set  up 
an  independent  government,  founded  on  the  new 
and  radical  principle  that ' '  every  man  is  born  free 
and  equal, ' '  there  were  many  who  did  not  consider  their 
decision  wise.  They  called  it  foolhardy  and  said  that 
it  never  could  be  done ;  that  it  was  not  practical ;  and 
that  it  was  only  a  dream.  There  are  always  men  like 
this  in  every  age.  Every  new  invention  and  every  new 
step  of  progress  is  opposed  by  these  same  honest,  well- 
meaning  pessimists,  who  refuse  to  believe  any  more 
than  their  eyes  can  actually  see.  Sometimes  they  have 
the  satisfaction  of  saying, ' '  I  told  you  so. ' '  ]\Iore  often 
they  are  left  far  behind  in  the  march  of  progress. 

This  tale,  however,  is  of  a  man  who  honestly  believed 
that  his  countr}Tnen  were  wrong,  and  when  it  came  to  a 
point  where  he  had  to  take  his  stand,  he  stood  against 
the  doctrines  of  liberty,  and  remained  loyal  to  his  con- 
!«icientious  belief  that ' '  the  King  can  do  no  wrong. ' '  His 
decision  made  him  a  "traitor"  to  the  one  and  a 
"patriot"  to  the  other — a  strange  paradox  of  heroism. 

—118— 


THE  TORY  FATHER 


In  the  little  town  of  Wallingford,  in  Connecticut,  in 
the  year  1746,  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  June,  Moses 
Dunbar  was  born,  one  of  a  family  of  sixteen  children. 
When  he  was  a  youth  of  eighteen,  he  married  a  maiden 
named  Phebe  Jerome.  This  was  in  the  days  when  the 
so-called  ''dissenting"  churches  in  Puritan  New  Eng- 
land and  the  powerful  Church  of  England  were  bitter 
enemies.  Moses  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  were 
brought  up  as  Congregationals,  and  the  hard  and  fast 
rules  of  the  "orthodox"  church  were  drilled  into  their 
little  brains  more  thoroughly,  possibly,  than  any  other 
branch  of  their  education. 

Shortly  after  his  marriage,  Moses  Dunbar  and  his 
young  wife,  withdrew  from  the  faith  of  their  childhood 
and  declared  themselves  for  the  Church  of  England. 
The  daring  young  Dunbar  assured  the  horrified  con- 
gregation that  he  had  weighed  the  matter  thoroughly 
and  had  determined  that  his  course  was  the  only  right 
one  for  him  to  pursue.  From  that  time  on,  to  the  end  of 
his  life,  he  was  a  fearless  supporter  of  the  Crown. 

"I  freely  confess,"  he  declared,  "I  never  could  see 
the  necessity  of  taking  up  arms  against  my  mother 
country. ' ' 

Angered  at  the  decided  stand  that  his  son  had  taken 
for  the  church  and  the  King  of  England,  his  father 
drove  him  from  home,  and,  with  his  wife,  Moses  went  to 
live  in  New  Cambridge  (the  early  name  of  the  town  of 
Bristol,  in  Connecticut),  which  had  been  the  home  of 
Mrs.  Dunbar  before  her  marriage. 

As  time  passed,  the  dislike  among  his  neighbors 
for  young  Dunbar  grew  intense.  The  burden  of  the 
Revolutionary  War  was  hanging  heavy  on  the  land,  and 
every  man  who  did  not  enter  the  army  was  an  object  of 
suspicion.  Frequently  such  men  were  driven  from 
their  homes  and  obliged  to  flee  for  their  lives. 

—119— 


HERO  TALES 


But  Moses  Dunbar  and  his  wife  struggled  on,  until 
twelve  years  had  elapsed  since  their  wedding  day — 
years  of  incessant  combat  against  public  opinion,  of 
insult  and  persecution.  One  day,  he,  while  on  his  way 
home  to  his  family,  was  attacked  by  a  mob  of  forty  men, 
and  cruelly  beaten  almost  unto  death;  but,  finally,  sat- 
isfied that  he  had  signed  a  false  statement  which  they 
had  thrust  upon  him,  they  dispersed,  and  left  him  suffer- 
ing by  the  roadside. 

He  had  barely  recovered  from  these  injuries,  when 
the  greatest  of  all  sorrows  came  to  him.  His  faithful 
wife,  who  had  been  his  chief  consolation  during  the 
twelve  years  of  hardship  and  insult,  and  who  was  now 
the  mother  of  seven  children,  died. 

''I  must  give  my  life  to  my  children,  now,"  he 
declared,  and  so  closely  did  he  remain  with  his  mother- 
less family  that  little  was  seen  of  him  in  the  commu- 
nity. One  day,  however,  when  he  was  going  to  town 
to  carry  the  produce  from  his  farm,  he  was  met  on  the 
road  by  a  company  of  men  and  seized  without  warning. 

''This  is  the  Tory,"  they  growled,  and  hurried  him 
before  a  committee  which  sentenced  him  to  prison  for 
five  months.  He  tried  to  get  word  to  his  children,  but 
his  captors  would  not  allow  it.  As  he  lay  in  prison,  his 
prayers  were  constantly  for  his  beloved  ones,  whom  he 
resigned  to  the  care  of  his  God.  On  the  fourteenth  day, 
the  prison  door  was  opened,  and  he  was  told  that  he 
could  go  on  one  condition — that  he  would  promise  to 
desert  the  Church  of  England  and  become  a  "patriot." 
This  he  refused  to  do,  but  he  was  finally  allowed  to  go 
on  his  way,  though  he  was  warned  to  get  out  of  the 
country.  Apprehending  greater  danger  if  he  remained 
in  that  locality,  he  fled  to  Long  Island. 

Time  went  on,  and  a  father's  longing  to  be  once  more 
with  his  children,  overcame  him.    He  returned  to  his 

—120— 


THE  TORY  FATHER 


old  home  and  hurriedly  married  a  certain  Miss  Esther 
Adams,  who  had  been  very  kind  to  his  children. 

His  bitterness  against  the  new  republic  rankled  at 
his  heart,  and  he  decided  not  only  to  remain  out  of  the 
American  fight  for  independence,  but  to  pledge  himself 
to  the  mother  country.  He  accepted  a  captain's  com- 
mission for  the  King's  service  in  Colonel  Fanning 's 
regiment,  though  he  knew  that  the  fact,  if  discovered 
by  his  neighbors,  would  mean  certain  death.  Suspicion 
had  been  directed  against  him  for  many  years,  and  the 
revolutionists  were  constantly  seeking  an  opportunity 
to  punish  him  for  his  defiant  loyalty  to  the  British  flag. 

In  the  year  1777,  one  Joseph  Smith,  whom  he  had 
considered  his  friend,  and  who  knew  of  his  commission, 
betrayed  him — a  peculiar  act  which  made  Smith  a 
traitor  to  friendship,  but  a  patriot  to  the  cause  of  his 
country. 

The  Tory  Dunbar  was  taken  before  the  court. 

' '  High  treason, ' '  pronounced  the  magistrate.  * '  You 
are  sentenced  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  dead,  on 
the  nineteenth  of  March." 

Captain  Dunbar,  an  American  in  the  King's  army, 
was  cast  into  prison  to  wait  for  the  day  of  his  doom. 
The  time  was  near  at  hand,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
gallows  was  upon  him,  when  one  Elisha  Wadsworth, 
who  had  come  to  admire  the  young  man's  courage, 
succeeded  one  day  in  slipping  a  knife  into  the  Captain's 
hands.  During  the  night,  Dunbar  wrenched  apart  his 
chains,  and  springing  at  the  guard,  knocked  him  to  the 
ground  and  fled  through  the  open  door. 

''Dunbar,  the  Tory,  has  escaped!" 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire  through  the  com- 
munity, and  the  hounds  of  the  law  were  soon  on  the  trail 
of  the  fleeing  Tory.  His  freedom  was  brief,  for  he  was 
soon  dragged  from  his  hiding-place  and  hurried  back  to 

—121— 


HERO  TALES 


the  prison.  On  the  nineteenth  of  March,  he  was  led  to 
the  gallows,  staunchly  refusing  to  acknowledge  the  new 
republic,  which  he  believed  could  never  endure  and  was 
nothing  more  than  a  foul  rebellion  against  his  mother 
country.  His  last  words  were  of  loyalty  to  the  Church 
of  England  and  the  Crown. 

This  tale  of  Moses  Dunbar  is  in  its  essence  the 
counterpart  of  that  of  Nathan  Hale.  Both  were  faith- 
ful to  that  which  they  honestly  believed  to  be  the  best 
interests  of  their  f  ellowmen.  Whatever  we  may  record 
against  the  Tories  of  the  American  Revolution,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  they  had  a  right  to  their  convic- 
tions and  that  it  took  courage  to  live  up  to  them.  This 
is  a  day  of  tolerance,  and  the  American  people  can  well 
afford  to  acknowledge  now  the  heroism  of  the  men 
whose  hearts  led  them  to  remain  loyal  to  their  King. 

The  flags  of  England  and  America  fly  to-day  side  by 
side,  and  intertwine  in  the  breeze  as  the  emblem  of  the 
future  in  which  the  English-speaking  race  is  to  lead 
the  earth  in  its  progress  toward  the  loftiest  civilization. 


"What  is  the  voice  I  heai' 

On  the  wind  of  the  Western  sea? 
Sentinel,  listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 
And  say  Avhat  the  voice  might  be. 
'Tis  a  proud,  free  people  calling  aloud  to  a  people 

proud  and  free, 
And  it  says  to  them,  'Kinsmen,  hail! 

We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
Now  let  us  liave  done  Avith  a  wornout  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong. 
And  our  friendsliip  last  long  as  love  doth  last,  and  be 
stronger  than  death  is  strong!" 


—122— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  REAR-ADMIRAL  OF 
THE  GREATEST  FLEET  ON  THE  SEAS 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  rear  admiral 
who  rose  from  a  naval  ensign  and  became  commander 
of  the  greatest  fighting  force  that  ever  sailed  under  one  flag  on 
the  highway  of  the  seas.     It  is  a  tale  of  the  iron  will  that  won  every 
battle  in  war  and  peace  and  enthroned  him  in  the  hearts  of  his  people. 

DOWN  in  old  Virginia,  on  the  eighteenth  day  of 
August,  1846,  the  hero  of  this  tale  came  upon 
the  earth.    He  was  fifteen  years  of  age,  when 
he  heard  the  shot  that  ''rang   'round  the 
world" — and  a  student  at  Annapolis. 

"I  am  a  Southern  lad,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  in  the 

service  of  my  government  and  I  must  obey  its  orders." 

The  discipline  of  the  naval  academy  had  inspired 

him  with  the  love  of  the  flag  and  to  it  he  pledged  his 

life. 

A  great  fleet  of  warships,  the  greatest  that  had  ever 
sailed  under  the  American  flag,  passed  out  of  Hampton 
Roads.  On  the  deck  of  one  of  the  ships  stood  a  young- 
ensign — the  boy  of  Virginia — in  the  blue  uniform  of 
his  government. 

The  huge  fleet  moved  into  the  harbor  at  Fort  Fisher. 
The  batteries  in  the  forts  boomed. 

"Ashore,"  ordered  the  commander  of  the  ship,  and, 
with  sixty-four  men,  the  boy-ensign  was  landed  under 
the  flaming  guns. 

The  merciless  fire  fell  among  the  brave  sixty-five 
—123— 


HERO  TALES 


sailors.  The  smoke  enveloped  them.  The  boy-ensign 
staggered,  and  almost  fell,  but  quickly  recovering  his 
balance,  rushed  on,  with  a  bullet  in  his  shoulder.  Now 
they  were  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  stockade 
around  the  fort.  He  stumbled  and  fell  on  his  face.  A 
comrade  ran  to  his  side  as  the  young  ensign  calmly 
bound  a  silk  handkerchief  around  a  wound  in  his  left 
knee.  Again  on  his  feet,  he  rushed  to  the  front  of  his 
charging  command.  Again  he  staggered.  A  third 
bullet  had  struck  him — this  time  in  the  right  knee  and 
he  went  down,  helpless.  Calmly  sitting  there,  in  the 
midst  of  a  terrific  rain  of  bullets,  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  another  handkerchief  and  proceeded  to  bind  up 
the  last  wound.  As  he  bandaged  the  wounded  knee, 
and  was  attempting  to  rise,  he  was  struck  in  the  foot 
and  thrown  again  to  the  ground  with  violence. 

Some  hours  later  the  lad,  who  was  lying  in  a  pool 
of  water  and  blood,  was  carried  to  his  ship.  Of  the 
sixty-four  men  of  his  command,  fifty-eight  were  dead  or 
wounded. 

The  boy-ensign  lay  hovering  between  life  and  death 
in  the  hospital  at  Norfolk. 

"His  life  can  be  saved  only  by  amputating  both 
legs,"  said  the  surgeons  as  they  stood  over  him.  The 
youthful  ensign  drew  a  pistol  from  under  his  pillow. 

''I'll  shoot  the  first  man  who  dares  to  put  a  knife 
to  those  legs,"  he  said  with  determination.  And  he  had 
won  his  first  battle — for  the  surgeons  withdrew  "to  let 
him  die  as  he  liked. ' ' 

The  wounds  would  have  made  a  cripple  of  most  men 
for  life,  but  the  young  naval  officer  determined  to  over- 
come them.  In  spite  of  the  intense  pain,  he  constantly 
exercised  his  shot-riddled  legs,  and  five  years  later 
stood  before  his  superior  officers,  seeking  active  service 
for  his  country. 

—124— 


THE  REAR-ADMIRAL 


"The  medical  board  of  the  navy  had  retired  him," 
he  was  informed.  The  young  ensign  appealed  to  Con- 
gress for  re-instatement,  and  soon  he  was  again  sailing 
the  seas. 

The  years  passed.  Chili,  in  South  America,  was 
disrupted  by  civil  strife.  The  cruiser  Yorktown  entered 
the  waters  of  the  South  American  republic  to  protect 
American  citizens  and  their  property,  during  the 
struggle.  On  the  bridge,  in  command  of  the  gunboat, 
was  the  young  ensign  of  old  Fort  Fisher,  now  grown 
gray  in  the  service. 

The  months  passed.  A  squadron  of  American  ships 
of  war  was  sent  to  entertain  the  Kaiser  of  Germany  at 
the  opening  of  the  Kiel  Canal.  In  command  was  the 
same  grim  fighter,  and,  as  he  gripped  the  hand  of  the 
German  monarch,  they  became  firm  friends — a  friend- 
ship that  lasted  through  life. 

It  was  now  the  year  of  1898.  The  battleship  Oregon 
was  at  San  Francisco  on  the  Pacific  coast.  The  war- 
clouds  hovered  over  the  island  of  Cuba. 

Pacing  the  bridge  of  the  great  battleship,  was  the 
commander,  now  fifty-four  years  of  age,  but  as  full  of 
fight  as  when  he  fell  with  four  wounds  at  Fort  Fisher, 
and  loved  and  respected  by  ''every  man-jack"  of  his 
crew  of  about  eight  hundred  sailors. 

The  great  leviathan  swung  from  her  anchorage  into 
the  heaving  Pacific,  bound  on  a  record-breaking  race, 
around  a  continent  and  through  oceans,  that  was  to 
astound  the  world.  Black  columns  of  smoke  poured 
from  the  funnels,  leaving  a  dark  trail  far  back  into  the 
hori5:on,  as  the  great  ship  forged  on  her  way.  Down 
the  coast  of  South  America,  she  ploughed.  The  gallant 
commander,  on  the  bridge,  despite  the  pain  in  his  knee, 
that  had  never  ceased  since  that  fateful  day  at  Fort 
Fisher,  guiding  his  ship,  urging  to  their  utmost  the 

—125— 


HERO  TALES 


tired,  straining  men  in  the  stoke-hole,  deep  down  in  the 
depths  of  the  speeding  warship. 

Now  they  were  at  the  southern  point  of  South  Amdr- 
ica.  With  consummate  skill  the  commander  pushed 
the  great  vessel  through  the  treacherous  j)assage  of  the 
Straits  of  Magellan.  Carefully  avoiding  the  half-suh- 
merged  rocks  that  studded  the  surface  of  the  channel, 
and  heedless  of  the  biting,  Antarctic  air,  the  commander 
watched  on  the  bridge,  until  they  passed  into  the  rolling 
waters  of  the  Atlantic  beyond.  Skirting  the  eastern 
coast  of  South  America,  the  great,  gray  battleship  be- 
gan the  second  leg  of  the  run.  Now  she  passed  into 
the  seas  of  the  Greater  Antilles ;  now  into  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  her  flags  waving,  and  the  sides  of  the  vessel 
lined  with  men,  anxiously  looking  for  the  first  landmark 
that  would  tell  them  that  they  had  reached — home.  The 
great  ship  Oregon  steamed  into  the  bay  of  Jupiter 
Inlet,  off  the  coast  of  Florida,  greeted  by  the  whistles  of 
the  other  sea-going  craft  in  the  harbor.  Puffs  of  smoke 
and  flame  burst  over  the  quiet  waters  of  the  little  bay, 
in  salute,  as  the  magnificent  Oregon  came  to  anchor — 
home  at  last — after  a  desperate  dash  of  14,133  miles 
around  a  continent,  in  less  than  six  weeks,  without  ac- 
cident,— the  longest  race  against  time  ever  attempted 
by  any  ship  of  the  world's  navies. 

It  was  Sunday  morning.  The  American  battle-fleet 
lay  before  Santiago.  Standing  on  the  quarter-deck  of 
the  loiva  was  the  grim  sea-fighter,  with  glass  to  his 
eyes,  peering  across  the  water  to  the  mouth  of  the  en- 
trance to  the  harbor  of  Santiago. 

**The  enemy  comes,"  he  cried.  It  was  the  same 
ensign  of  long  ago  at  Fort  Fisher,  and  time  had  only 
imprinted  more  deeply  the  lines  of  iron- will  on  his  face. 
He  was  the  first  to  sight  the  Spanish  ships  emerging 
from  the  inner  harbor,  the  first  to  get  his  own  ship  under 

—126— 


THE  REAR-ADMIRAL 


way,  the  first  to  fire  a  shot  at  the  fleeing  enemy.  On 
the  bridge,  through  the  whole  conflict,  stood  this 
weather-beaten  commander,  glorying  in  the  flying 
shells,  and  the  din  and  crash  of  battle ;  joyous  to  again 
be  permitted  to  defend  the  honor  of  his  country. 

Nearly  ten  years  passed.  In  the  waters  below  the 
nation's  capital,  in  Hampton  Roads,  lay  sixteen  ships 
of  the  republic's  navy.  On  the  deck  of  the  flagship  was 
the  President  of  the  United  States,  clasping  the  hand 
of  its  commander — the  same  grim  fighter  of  old  Fort 
Fisher.  The  largest  fleet  of  war-vessels  that  had  ever 
undertaken  to  encircle  the  globe,  moved  out  into  the 
Atlantic,  to  carry  the  flag  of  peace  around  the  world. 
No  nation  of  the  earth  had  ever  attempted  such  a  test 
of  endurance  of  men  and  material. 

"Yonder  in  the  Roads,"  the  grim  conmiander  had 
said,  as  he  pointed  at  his  ships,"  are  fifteen  thousand 
of  the  best  fighting  men  ever  bred  on  earth,  and  we 
want  the  world  to  know  it. ' ' 

The  pale  blue  eyes  of  the  ''old  man,"  as  he  was 
affectionately  called  by  all  who  followed  his  flag,  glowed. 
In  them  could  be  caught  the  fire  that  had  inspired  his 
men  so  often  in  their  duty ;  in  the  low  Southern  voice 
lingered  the  appeal  that  had  aroused  them  to  victory. 
It  was  such  a  heart  as  this  that  had  made  him  beloved 
1)}^  every  American,  and  which  prompted  an  incident 
that  took  place  when  his  ship  once  lay  in  the  harbor  of 
a  great  South  American  city.  A  ship's  boy  was  on  the 
beach,  tossing  a  baseball — true  to  the  spirit  of  the 
American  youth.  A  policeman,  not  understanding  the 
stirring  emotions  of  the  great  national  game,  attacked 
the  lad  and  brutally  clubbed  him.  The  boy  returned 
sobbing  to  the  ship.  The  commander  calling  him  into 
his  cabin,  washed  the  blood  from  his  face. 

"Officer  of  the  deck,"  called  out  the  commander,  as 


HERO  TALES 


he  patted  the  lad's  head,  "Pick  out  fifty  of  your  hus- 
kiest men,  give  each  one  a  baseball,  and  send  them  to  the 
beach  to  play." 

An  hour  later,  a  frantic  chief-of-police  rowed  to  the 
ship,  and  gained  the  presence  of  the  commander. 

''Admiral!  Admiral!"  he  shrieked.  "Fifty  of 
your  men  are  on  shore  and  have  beaten  Eio's  police  to 
a  pulp. ' ' 

"That's  what  I  sent  'em  on  shore  for,"  roared  the 
American  commander.    ' '  Good  morning,  sir. ' ' 

As  the  great  fleet  moved  into  the  Golden  Gates  of 
the  Pacific,  the  American  people  arose  en  masse  to  pay 
tribute  to  its  beloved  commander.  In  this,  his  greatest 
day  of  triumph,  he  met  also  the  saddest  hour  of  his 
life.  Old,  weather-beaten,  suffering  intensely  from  the 
wounds  of  Fort  Fisher  which  he  had  carried  through 
forty-five  years,  the  great  admiral  stood  in  review  of 
his  ships.  One  by  one,  they  filed  by,  saluting  as  they 
passed  the  flagship,  on  the  bridge  of  which  the  beloved 
commander  stood  for  the  last  time. 

' '  They  are  my  boys, ' '  he  said, ' '  every  one  of  them. ' ' 

A  few  hours  later,  the  old  admiral  left  his  fleet  for- 
ever, retired  by  the  regulation  of  the  navy,  which  fixes 
the  age-limit  of  active  service  at  sixty-two.  With  grief 
in  his  heart,  he  had  bade  farewell  to  his  men  as  they 
sank  below  the  horizon  of  heaving  waters  on  their  way 
to  the  Orient. 

This  is  the  tale  of  an  idol  of  the  American  people — 
the  kind,  determined,  grim  "Fighting  Bob," — Rear- 
Admiral  Eobley  D.  Evans. 


'Hail,  son  of  peak  and  prairie! 

Hail,  lord  of  coast  and  sea! 
Our  prayers  and  songs,— our  lives  belong, 

Land  of  our  love,  to  thee!" 

—128— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  CASTAWAYS  IN  THE 
STORM  OFF  CAPE  HENLOPEN 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  the  castaways 
in  a  winter  gale  at  sea,  and  the  nnen  who  answered  the  siren 
call  from  the  blinding   depths  of  the  storm.      It  is  a  tale  of  the 
strong   hearts  that  battle  with   ice-capped   breakers  to  carry  succor 
to  those  who  are  suffering  the) torments  of  the  billows  of  angry  seas. 

IT  WAS  a  cold  winter  day,  in  1906 — the  eleventh  day 
of  January.    An  icy  gale  was  blowing  from  the 
sea,  and  a  driving  snow-storm  swept  across  Cape 
Henlopen. 
"I've  been  forty  years  in  this  business   on  the 
coast,"  said  one  of  the  men  in  the  life-saving  station, 
"but  I  never  saw  a  harder  gale  than  this." 

"There's  something  to  learn  in  every  storm,"  said 
Captain  Dan  Lynn,  as  he  peered  out  into  the  blinding 
snow. 

As  he  spoke,  the  siren  call  of  a  lost  steamship  floated 
in  on  the  winds. 

"Come  on,  boys,"  yelled  the  captain.  "There's 
work  to  be  done." 

The  door  in  the  life-saving  station  rolled  back  and 
a  blast  of  bitter  cold  wind  beat  against  the  faces  of  the 
life-men.  Far  out  at  sea,  in  the  midst  of  sleet  and  snow, 
could  be  seen  the  ghostly  outlines  of  a  ship  tossing  on 
the  waves.  The  surf,  dashing  upon  the  coast  threw 
huge  floes  of  ice  on  to  the  shore. 

Three  times  the  life-boat  was  launched  into  the  sea, 
—129— 


HERO  TALES 


only  to  be  tossed  back  to  land  with  an  angry  roar.  The 
life-men  were  lashed  to  the  shore  by  a  whip-line  in 
order  to  keep  them  from  being  sucked  out  to  sea. 

''Look!"  cried  Captain  Dan  Lynn,  ''Look!" 

The  phantom  at  sea  came  thundering  toward  the 
shore,  with  its  stern  raised  by  a  giant  wave.  As  it  rode 
the  surf,  it  turned  slowly,  until  it  lay  broadside  on  the 
sea,  when  with  a  tumultuous  crash  it  broke  across  the 
outer  bar  and  then  against  the  inner  reef,  as  though  it 
had  been  an  egg-shell.  The  great  ship  lay  so  nearly 
flat  on  its  port  side  that  one  could  almost  look  down  its 
smokestack.  The  hatches  gave  way,  and  people 
swarmed  out  from  them  in  terror,  women  screaming, 
children  crying,  and  men  falling  on  their  knees  and 
offering  prayers  to  God. 

The  surf  broke  on  the  shore  and  devoured  the  flee- 
ing human  being  like  an  angry  monster.  The  wind  was 
blowing  sixty  miles  an  hour.  A  life  cordon  of  men  threw 
themselves  into  the  sea.  As  the  line  dragged  them 
back  to  the  shore,  they  held  in  their  arms  six  half- 
drowned  castaways  from  the  wrecked  ship. 

There  was  the  roar  of  a  gun,  A  shot  from  the  life- 
station  threw  a  line  with  wonderful  accuracy  over  the 
hatch  windlass.  Mutters  and  shouts  in  French  reached 
the  shore.  The  modern  methods  of  American  coast- 
defense  were  not  familiar  to  the  maddened  crew.  Ig- 
noring the  line  that  was  ready  to  pull  them  ashore,  the 
desperate  seamen  cut  loose  their  own  life-boat. 

"Poor  fools!"  cried  Captain  Dan  Lynn.  "They 
won't  last  a  minute  in  that  surf." 

The  hungry  surf  hissed  at  the  boat  as  it  struck  the 
sea, — then  tossed  it  back  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  only  to 
swallow  it  up  again  in  a  seemingly  bottomless  trough. 

"Fire!"  cried  the  voice  of  Captain  Dan  Lynn,  as 
the  undertow  opened  its  cavernous  mouth. 

—130— 


THE  CASTAWAYS 


A  rocket  shot  from  the  coast  and  the  line  fell  across 
the  life-boat.  The  line  was  made  fast.  The  ice-floes 
dashed  upon  the  beach. 

"Into  the  surf!"  cried  Captain  Dan,  and  hardly 
had  he  sjooken  when  he  and  his  three  mates  were  lost 
in  the  blinding  storm.  The  life-savers  on  the  shore 
hauled  in  the  rope,  and  Captain  Dan  tottered  from  the 
sea,  his  clothes  sagging  with  ice,  and  in  his  arms  a 
human  form. 

"Here  she  comes,  fellows,"  he  cried.     "Pull!" 

The  life-boat  of  the  wrecked  ship  rose  like  a  wisp  of 
seaweed  on  the  crest  of  a  wave.  The  life-savers  ran 
up  the  beach,  with  the  land-end  of  the  rope  that  had 
been  thrown  with  the  rocket,  to  hold  her  fast  when  she 
came  in  on  the  breaker.  But  the  roaring  sea  rushed  in 
faster  than  they  could,  and  swept  the  French  crew  from 
their  life-boat.  Captain  Dan  and  his  mates  stood 
battling  with  the  surf.  There  was  a  mighty  tug  on  the 
lines  from  the  land,  and  as  they  came  in,  soaked  and 
dripping,  they  carried  in  their  arms  four  French 
sailors.  Again  the  surf  swallowed  the  brave  life- 
savers.  A  wave  broke  on  the  shore  and  three  more  of 
the  French  crew  were  cast  upon  the  land — two  of  them 
dead. 

Boom !  Another  line  shot  from  the  life-station  over 
the  hulk  of  the  wrecked  ship.  The  desperate  crew  that 
was  left  on  board  caught  the  line  of  the  breeches-buoy 
and  tugged  heroically.  But  there  was  not  strength 
enough  left  in  them  to  draw  it  quite  clear  of  the  water. 
Half  of  it  dragged  under  the  waves,  but  the  life-savers 
pulled  and  on  came  the  passengers,  screaming,  and  cry- 
ing as  they  were  drenched  under  that  icy  surf.  On  they 
came,  ashore  at  last,  half -dead,  bruised  by  the  ice,  half- 
frozen,  and  unable  to  stand,  but  alive. 

It  was  ten  hours  later.  Two  horses  were  drawing 
—131— 


HERO  TALES 


the  life-boat,  but  the  gale  was  blowing  so  furiously  that 
the  faithful  beasts  gave  out,  and  Captain  Dan  and  his 
mates  themselves  pulled  the  car  five  miles  through  that 
winter  storm. 

The  French  steamer,  Amerique,  lay  fast  on  the 
bottom  in  the  inner  reef  at  Seabright,  but  one  hundred 
and  sixty-four  of  the  two  hundred  souls  that  it  carried 
had  been  saved,  saved  by  the  dauntless  bravery  of  Cap- 
tain Dan  and  his  loyal  crew. 

"If  the  storm  hadn't  been  too  stiff,"  said  Captain 
Dan  Lynn  modestly,  as  he  took  in  his  broken  hand  the 
gold  medal  which  Congress  had  awarded  him  for  his 
heroism  in  the  government's  service,  ''we  would  have 
saved  every  one  of  them." 


"Off  with  your  hats  as  the  flag  goes  by! 
And  let  the  heart  have  its  say: 
You're  man  enough  for  a  tear  in  your  eye 
That  you  will  not  wipe  away. 

"You're  man  enough  for  a  thrill  that  goes 
To  your  very  finger-tips- 
Ay!  the  lump  just  then  in  your  throat  that  rose 
Spoke  more  than  your  parted  lips. 

"Lift  up  the  boy  on  your  shoulder  high, 
And  show  him  the  faded  shred; 
Those  stripes  would  be  red  as  the  sunset  sky 
If  death  could  have  dyed  them  red. 

"Off  with  your  hats  as  the  flag  goes  by! 
Uncover  the  youngster's  head; 
Teach  him  to  hold  it  holy  and  high 
For  the  sake  of  its  sacred  dead." 


—132— 


THE   TALE   OF    THE    TROOPERS   WHO 
PLUNGED  TO  THE  VALLEY  OF  DEATH 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  troopers 
who  followed  their  gallant  leader  into  the  valley  of 
death  in  the  conquest  of  white  civilization  against  the  Amer- 
ican aborigine.     It  is  a  tale  of  the  last  fight  of  one  of  the  most 
daring  cavalry  officers  that  ever  lived  or  fought  under  a  nation's  flag. 

T  WAS  in  the  year  1876.  The  Sioux  Indians  in  the 
Northwest  were  in  revolt  against  the  white  man. 
They  had  broken  away  from  their  reservation  up 
in  Dakota,  and  were  terrorizing  the  pioneers 
along  the  borders. 

The  guns  at  old  Fort  Lincoln,  in  the  Yellowstone 
country,  boomed  as  the  Seventh  United  States  Cavalry, 
with  forty  Indian  scouts,  moved  out  along  the  trail, 
with  the  band  in  the  barracks  playing  ' '  Garry  Owen. '  * 
The  soldiers  in  the  barrack  windows  watched  them  as 
far  as  their  vision  could  reach,  and  as  they  disappeared 
around  the  bend,  there  were  tears  in  many  of  their 
eyes. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  hard  fight,"  said  one  of  them, 
"I'm  afraid  we  may  never  see  the  boys  again." 

It  was  a  long,  tiresome  journey.  Sometimes  the 
little  company  made  ten,  sometimes  forty  miles  a  day, 
the  distance  being  determined  by  the  difficulties  of  the 
trail,  and  the  nearness  of  wood,  water  and  grass.  One 
wagon  was  assigned  to  each  troop,  carrying  five  days' 
rations,  and  the  mess  kit,  which,   with  the  regular 

—133— 


HERO  TALES 


wagon-train,  amounted  to  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
vehicles.  Each  troop  horse  carried  about  ninety 
pounds,  in  addition  to  his  rider.  This  included  one 
hundred  rounds  of  ammunition,  besides  the  two  hun- 
dred reserved  in  the  pack  train.  Camp  was  usually 
made  by  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  so  that  they 
could  be  settled  for  the  night  by  sundown,  no  night- 
fires  being  allowed.  At  the  first  call  for  reveille, 
usually  at  4:30  in  the  morning,  the  stable  guards 
wakened  the  occupants  of  each  tent.  The  cooks  pre- 
pared the  breakfast,  of  hard  bread,  bacon,  coffee,  and 
sometimes  beans  or  fresh  meat.  Within  two  hours, 
that  is,  by  half-past  six,  the  command  was  again  on 
the  march. 

So  it  was  for  thirty-five  days,  when  the  camp  was 
opened  on  the  Powder  River,  after  a  journey  of  five 
hundred  miles.  Scouts  were  sent  ahead  to  learn  the 
condition  of  the  trail.  It  was  but  a  few  days  later  that 
one  of  the  scouts  hurried  into  camp. 

''The  Indian  trail  is  close  by,"  he  reported  to  the 
commander.    "We  are  in  the  hostile  country." 

There  was  a  flurry  in  the  camp.  Mules  were  packed 
with  provisions  and  ammunition,  and  a  detail  of  two 
men  from  each  company  soon  left  the  camp  and  were 
lost  in  the  forests. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  June.  The 
fires  in  the  camp  of  the  advance  troopers  on  the  trail 
were  extinguished  and  no  bugle  was  sounded.  In  the 
valley  below,  and  stretching  for  miles  along  the  Little 
Big  Horn,  could  be  seen  the  glow  of  the  camp-fires  of 
the  Sioux. 

In  the  light  of  the  June  skies,  the  bronzed  figure  of 
an  Indian  stood  on  the  hills,  in  the  camp  of  the  cavalry- 
men, and  pointed  out  the  trail  as  it  wound  through  the 
valley.    He  was  a  half-breed  Sioux,  who  had  deserted 

—134— 


THE  TROOPERS 


his  own  tribesmen  for  the  camp  of  the  white  man.  One 
hundred  head  of  horses  had  been  offered,  by  the  Sioux, 
for  the  scalp  of  this  half-breed  deserter.  As  he  peered 
from  the  bluff  into  the  valley,  he  shrugged  his  shouders. 

''What's  the  trouble?"  asked  the  officer. 

"No  can  do,"  he  muttered  in  broken  English. 
' '  They  too  many,  they  too  strong. ' ' 

"You're  a  coward,"  grunted  the  officer.  "There 
won't  be  a  Sioux  left  in  the  valley  by  another  night." 

The  sun  was  just  breaking  through  the  clouds  on 
the  following  morning.  The  call  of  the  bugle  ran  lightly 
through  the  camp.  It  was  the  officer's  call — the  first 
in  three  days.  The  scene  was  impressive.  The  com- 
mander, a  handsome  and  striking  figure,  six  feet  tall, 
with  long,  light  hair  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  and 
wearing  a  black  velvet  jacket  and  a  red  scarf,  stood 
before  his  officers  and  issued  his  orders.  The  regiment 
was  divided  into  three  battalions,  each  numbering 
slightly  over  200  men.  The  tall  commander,  seated  on 
his  spirited  charger  halted  on  the  hill  in  front  of 
his  men.  He  raised  his  hat  and  waving  it  above  his 
head,  his  blue  eyes  snapping  like  fire,  he  cried : 

"Follow  me,  boys,  and  we  will  sleep  on  robes  to- 
night!" 

The  soldiers  broke  into  cheers,  and  the  hoof-beats 
of  the  cavalry  horses  echoed  along  the  mountain  path. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  Little  Big  Horn  Eiver,  on 
the  edge  of  the  timber,  and  immediately  in  front  of  a 
long  bluff,  with  rocky,  precipitous  walls,  lay  the  camp 
of  the  hostile  Sioux,  the  fiercest  warriors  of  the  Ameri- 
can northwest. 

As  the  cavalry  swung  along  the  bluffs,  they  were 
separated  into  three  divisions,  in  order  to  approach 
the  Sioux  as  distinct  fighting  forces,  one  as  a  flanking 
party,  the  other  as  a  reserve,  while  the  great  cavalry- 

—135— 


HERO  TALES 


man,  at  the  head  of  his  own  column,  was  to  plunge 
down  the  slopes  into  the  very  valley  of  death. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
ford  of  the  river  had  been  reached.  Suddenly,  the 
piercing  yell  of  the  Sioux  rang  through  the  valley. 
A  terrific  blaze  of  fire  and  death  came  from  the 
thickets.  The  cavalry-horses  reared  on  their  haunches, 
so  close  were  the  flames.  Savages  poured  from  the 
ledges  and  ravines,  and  swarmed  down  upon  the  faith- 
ful battalion  of  less  than  three  hundred,  until  they  were 
surrounded  by  two  thousand  howling  warriors. 

An  Indian  scout  who  had  followed  the  cavalrymen 
from  the  Crow  reservation — faithful  Curly — begged  at 
the  side  of  his  master,  ''Flee  to  safety,  I  know  the 
path.  See,  I  have  a  Sioux  blanket !  I  will  cut  off  my 
own  hair.  See,  I  have  paint!  I  will  make  you  an 
Indian  and  you  can  flee  to  the  mountains." 

The  graven  face  of  the  tall  commander  looked  grate- 
fully into  the  pleading  eyes  of  his  Indian  scout.  Then 
he  shook  his  head,  and  raising  his  hand,  waved  the 
faithful  fellow  away. 

The  plunging  horses,  their  nostrils  almost  aflame, 
broke  and  stampeded  down  the  stream,  or  to  the  bank, 
many  of  them  falling,  pierced  by  the  volley,  to  drown 
in  the  waters. 

The  troopers,  entrapped  by  the  ambuscade  and  the 
overpowering  numbers,  fell  back  to  the  hills  three 
hundred  yards  in  the  rear. 

"Dismount,"  ordered  the  tall  commander. 

The  yelling  savages  seemed  to  pour  from  every 
direction  in  terrible  onslaught. 

"Mount,"  rang  the  order  from  the  trumpet.  But 
there  were  few  horses  remaining.  The  field  was  strewn 
with  the  dead,  while  the  chargers  that  had  survived 
the  terrific   fire  were  mounted  by  Indian  lads,   or 

—136— 


THE  TROOPERS 


squaws,  and  driven  fuming  and  neighing  into  the  hills. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  on  that  terrible  night.  The 
Crow  scout  fell,  exhausted,  into  the  camp  of  the  reserve 
command.  He  was  so  excited  that  he  could  hardly 
speak.  He  did  not  know  whence,  nor  how  he  had  come 
there,  nor  whether  his  commander  was  alive  or  dead. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-seventh,  the  troopers 
of  the  reserve  and  flanking  divisions  moved  along  the 
bluff,  after  passing  through  a  terrific  onslaught  from 
the  savages.  As  they  approached  the  ford  of  the  river, 
the  banks  were  strewn  with  the  slain,  and  there,  on  a 
barren  knoll,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  white  band 
horses,  which  he  had  undoubtedly  killed  to  form  a 
breastwork,  lay  the  form  of  the  tall  commander. 

The  troopers  lifted  their  hats,  their  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  many  of  them  were  choked  with  sobs.  On 
that  field,  not  one  remained  of  the  gallant  cavalrymen, 
with  whom  they  had  parted  but  a  few  hours  before,  the 
hills  echoing  with  their  cheers  as  their  daring  com- 
mander had  cried:  "Follow  me,  boys,  and  we  will 
sleep  on  robes  to-night. ' ' 

That  night,  as  the  troopers  were  in  camp,  the  sound 
of  a  whinneying  horse  came  from  the  darkness.  The 
soldiers  sprang  to  their  feet.  There  stood  a  noble 
charger,  riddled  with  bullets  and  painfully  dragging 
his  hind  legs,  which  were  sorely  wounded. 

''Comanche,"  the  trooper  cried.  ''It  is  Comanche 
— the  only  living  thing  from  that  field  of  carnage." 
And  the  noble  war  horse  became  the  idol  of  the  army. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  gallant  Captain  George 
Custer,  one  of  the  greatest  cavalry  leaders  that  the 
world  has  ever  known.  Speak  the  name  of  Custer  in 
the  armies  of  the  nation  and  there  comes  but  one  com- 
ment:   "A  braver  cavalry  officer  never  lived!" 


—137— 


THE   TALE    OF   THE    HOMELESS    GIRL 
WHO  FOUGHT  IN  THE  REVOLUTION 


This  IS  the  tale  of  a  homeless  girl 
who  longed  to  become  a  man  and  go  forth  to  battle  for 
her  country.    The  romance  of  chivalry  in  the  days  of  knight- 
hood, when  Joan  of  Arc  led  her  flag  to  battle,  does  not  surpass  in 
heroism   this  tale   of   a  girl's  patriotism    in   the  American   Revointion. 

IN  a  certain  village  in  the  County  of  Plymouth,  ou 
the  coast  of  Massachusetts,  lived  a  little  girl 
named  Deborah  Sansom,  and  she  was  very  poor. 
Her  parents  were  worthless  characters,  and  little 
Deborah  was  ill-treated  and  neglected.  She  was  finally 
taken  from  them  and  sent  to  live  in  the  home  of  a  kind 
farmer.  She  had  nourishing  food  and  comfortable 
clothing,  and  was  taught  to  perform  the  little  duties  of 
everyday  with  always  a  smile  on  her  face.  No  attention 
was  paid  to  her  education,  however,  and  this  she  felt 
keenly,  for  she  was  hungry  to  learn.  There  were  no 
books  in  the  house,  except  the  family  Bible,  and  this  she 
could  not  understand.  She  borrowed  books  from  the 
school  children  as  they  passed  her  house,  and  soon  she 
was  able  to  read  fairly  well. 

When  she  reached  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  felt  that 
she  had  been  deprived  of  many  advantages,  and  that 
now  she  was  free  to  do  as  she  wished  in  the  matter  of 
education.  So  she  left  her  home  and  went  to  another 
farm  where  she  could  work  half  the  day,  and  the  other 
half  could  attend  a  district  school.    Her  progress  was 

—138— 


THE  HOMELESS  GIRL 


remarkable.    In  a  few  months  she  had  gained  more 
knowledge  than  her  schoolmates  had  amassed  in  years. 

It  was  while  Deborah  was  in  school,  that  she  heard 
of  the  outbreak  of  the  American  Revolution.  The  spirit 
of  patriotism,  that  was  kindled  then  in  the  heart  of 
every  true  American,  burned  within  her.  She  listened 
eagerly  to  the  news  of  the  war,  and  longed  to  be  a  man 
so  that  she  could  go  to  battle. 

"I  wonder  if  a  girl  can't  fight  for  her  country  as 
well  as  a  man,"  she  thought,  as  she  sat  watching  the 
soldiers  pass  the  window. 

' '  I  will ! ' '  she  declared.  ' '  I  will — and  nobody  will 
know  I  'm  only  a  girl ! ' ' 

Deborah  laid  her  plans  in  secret,  and  by  keeping  the 
district  school  through  the  summer,  she  earned  money 
enough  to  buy  some  fustian.  Little  by  little,  she  made 
this  cloth  into  a  man's  suit,  and  hid  each  piece  as  it  was 
finished,  under  a  haystack.  Finally,  she  left  the  house 
where  she  had  been  living,  under  the  pretense  of  earn- 
ing better  wages.  To  her  intense  relief,  no  one  seemed 
to  care  enough  about  her  welfare  to  inquire  further 
in  her  plans. 

Deborah  was  tall  and  erect  in  figure.  Her  face  was 
frank  and  open  and  good  to  look  at.  Her  hair  was  cut 
close  to  her  head.  She  went  to  the  woods  and  slipped 
on  the  boy's  clothes  that  she  had  made,  and  looked  at 
herself. 

"I'd  like  to  know,"  she  said,  clapping  her  hands  in 
glee,  "where  you  could  find  a  better  man  than  this !" 

"But,"  she  added,  "I'll  have  to  begin  to  act  like  a 
man  so  that  I  will  not  be  suspected. ' ' 

It  was  a  cool  day  in  October,  in  1778,  when  a  strong, 
erect  youth  stood  before  the  commanding  officer  in  the 
camp  of  the  American  army,  asking  to  be  enlisted. 

"Your  name?"  growled  the  officer. 
— 139-— 


HERO  TALES 


''Robert  Sliirtliffe,"  replied  the  youth  firmly. 

"Passed,"  said  the  officer,  pleased  with  the  young 
man's  fine  physique. 

Deborah's  heart  beat  wildly.  Her  ambitions  were 
now  to  be  realized.  She  was  a  man  and  was  going  to 
war  for  her  country!  She  decided  that  she  must  be 
very  quiet,  and  not  talk  too  much,  and  then  she  would 
not  be  so  apt  to  reveal  herself.  The  name  of  ''Robert 
Shirtliffe"  was  enlisted  for  the  entire  war,  and  she  was 
placed  as  one  of  the  first  volunteers  in  Captain  Thayer's 
company  of  minute-men  in  the  town  of  Medway,  in 
Massachusetts.  Her  loneliness  attracted  the  interest 
of  Captain  Thayer,  and  he  took  "Robert  Shirtliffe" 
into  his  own  home  until  the  company  was  called  to  join 
the  main  army. 

"He's  a  fine  boy,"  said  the  captain.  "Handsome 
and  faithful.  We  need  only  a  few  more  lads  like  this 
and  we'll  drive  the  British  from  American  soil." 

Deborah  had  become  so  strong,  from  constant  labor 
on  the  farm,  that  she  was  able  to  perform  efficiently  the 
duties  required  of  her.  Her  company  was  soon  march- 
ing on  to  the  battlefield.  Shot  and  shell  roared  about 
her  head,  but  she  stood  on  the  firing  line,  with  a  heroism 
that  never  faltered,  and  fought  for  the  flag  that  she 
loved.  Her  splendid  bravery  won  for  her  the  admira- 
tion of  the  other  soldiers.  Twice  she  was  severely 
wounded ;  once  by  a  sword-cut  on  her  head,  and  again 
by  a  bullet  passing  through  her  shoulder,  but  she  bore 
the  pain  without  flinching  and  refused  to  be  carried 
from  the  field,  insisting  that  she  was  not  hurt. 

"It's  a  brave  lad,"  exclaimed  the  officers,  "that 
Robert  Shirtliffe." 

Three  long  years  of  warfare  passed  and  "Robert 
Shirtliffe"  was  at  the  front  whenever  duty  called.  He 
said  little  to  his  comrades,  but  he  fought  like  a  young 

—140— 


THE  HOMELESS  GIRL 


tiger,  and  his  courage  made  him  a  hero  with  them  all. 
Then  there  was  something  in  his  quiet,  gentle  manner 
that  made  them  love  him ;  there  was  not  a  soldier  who 
would  not  have  risked  his  life  for  "Robert  Shirtliffe." 
One  morning  the  news  passed  through  the  camp, 
"Robert  Shirtliffe  is  stricken  with  brain-fever."  Sor- 
row fell  on  the  hearts  of  every  soldier  in  the  company. 
Poor  Deborah  now  had  a  harder  enemy  to  fight  than 
the  British  red-coats.  For  many  days  she  battled 
desperately  to  retain  her  reason.  Worse  than  the  dis- 
ease itself,  she  feared  that  her  secret  might  be  discov- 
erd,  and  that  if  she  lived  she  would  be  driven  from  the 
army  in  disgrace.  She  was  taken  to  the  hospital,  but 
there  she  received  little  attention,  because  her  case  was 
considered  hopeless  and  there  were  many  wounded 
soldiers  whose  lives  could  be  more  easily  saved. 

Good  Dr.  Binney,  the  hospital  physician,  came  in 
one  morning. 

"How  is  Robert!"  he  asked. 
"Poor  Bob  is  gone,"  replied  the  nurse. 
The  doctor  went  to  the  bedside,  and,  holding  the 
hand  of  the  girl,  discovered  that  the  pulse  was  still 
beating,  but  very  faintly.  In  endeavoring  to  quicken 
it,  he  discovered  what  he  had  not  before  suspected,  that 
his  patient  was  not  a  man. 

"Noble  woman,"  he  said,  in  his  generous,  sympa- 
thetic heart.  Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  strong  man 
who  had  seen  so  many  thousands  pass  from  this  army 
to  that  greater  army  of  the  beyond,  and  at  that  moment, 
he  determined  to  neglect  her  no  longer;  but  to  bring 
her  back  to  life  and  strength,  if  medical  skill  could  do 
it.  He  ordered  the  nurses  to  leave  ' '  Robert  Shirtliffe ' ' 
to  him  alone,  and  to  take  care  of  the  others. 

"I'll  take  care  of  Robert,"  he  said  to  them.  "You 
have  other  duties;  leave  him  wholly  to  me.*' 

—141— 


HERO  TALES 


Many  days  passed,  and  poor  Deborah  began  to 
regain  consciousness.  Then  slowly  her  strength  came 
back  to  her.  The  doctor  greeted  her  with  kindliness 
and  spoke  gently. 

' '  Eobert, ' '  he  said, ' '  you  are  going  to  get  well.  You 
have  put  up  a  noble  fight,  and  you  have  won.  I  am 
going  to  take  you  to  my  own  home  where  I  can  give  you 
better  care." 

The  good  doctor  had  decided  never  to  reveal  to  any- 
one— not  even  to  Deborah — that  he  held  her  secret. 

Extremely  pathetic  is  the  bit  of  romance  that  comes 
into  Deborah's  life  at  this  time.  A  young  and  lovely 
heiress,  the  doctor's  niece,  who,  out  of  the  tenderness  of 
heart  was  led  to  do  charitable  work  among  the  soldiers, 
bestowed  many  kindnesses  upon  this  unfortunate  sol- 
dier. They  spent  much  time  together,  and  steadily 
the  affection  between  them  grew  stronger.  This  was, 
indeed,  amusing  to  the  good  doctor.  He  chuckled  to 
himself,  but  never  gave  a  hint  of  his  secret. 

Deborah  was  restored  to  health,  and  the  time  for 
her  departure  was  drawing  near.  The  young  girl 
grieved  to  think  she  must  now  lose  her  soldier.  One 
day  she  came  to  "Eobert"  and  confessed  her  love,  for 
she  knew  that  this  noble  youth  would  never  aspire  to 
the  hand  of  so  rich  an  heiress.  She  offered  him  the  use 
of  her  fortune  to  continue  his  education  before  their 
marriage.  Deborah  was  overcome.  She  had  not 
realized  the  depth  of  this  tender  girl's  affection.  She 
would  rather  give  up  her  life  than  bring  one  moment's 
pain  to  her.  What  could  she  do !  She  longed  to  make 
amends,  but  there  was  no  way,  without  divulging  her 
sex,  and  this  she  felt  she  could  not  do.  Their  parting 
was  one  of  the  saddest  days  of  Deborah's  young  life. 

"I  am  too  poor  and  humble,"  she  said.  ''You  do 
not  know  me.   You  could  not  marry  me  if  you  did.    But 

—142— 


THE  HOMELESS  GIRL 


we  will  be  good  friends.  I  will  let  you  hear  from  me 
often." 

When  the  time  came  for  the  soldier  to  return  to  the 
army,  Dr.  Binney  had  a  conference  with  the  captain  of 
the  company  in  which  Deborah  had  served,  after  which 
she  received  an  order  from  headquarters  to  carry  a 
note  to  General  Washington. 

Deborah  had  long  been  suspicious  that  the  doctor 
knew  her  secret,  but,  try  as  she  might,  she  could  get  no 
sign  from  him  to  that  effect ;  so  she  had  allowed  herself 
to  be  reassured.  But  now  that  he  was  instrumental  in 
sending  her  to  General  Washington,  she  was  convinced 
that  he  was  aware  of  her  disguise. 

She  hesitated.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 
been  enlisted,  her  courage  was  failing  her,  but  there 
was  no  way  out  of  it,  and  she  must  go.  A  few  hours 
later,  "Robert  Shirtliffe"  entered  the  headquarters  of 
General  Washington.  When  she  was  taken  into  the 
presence  of  the  great  general,  she  was  so  overpowered 
with  suspense  and  dread  that  she  could  not  compose 
herself.  Washington  noticed  the  nervousness  of  the 
youth  before  him,  and,  thinking  that  it  was  caused  by 
diffidence,  spoke  words  of  encouragement.  Deborah 
handed  him  the  message  with  which  she  had  been  in- 
trusted. 

''Give  the  soldier  some  refreshments,"  said  Wash- 
ington, speaking  to  an  attendant,  as  he  tore  open  the 
message. 

When  Deborah  was  again  summoned  into  the  gen- 
eraPs  presence,  the  gallant  Washington  bowed  and 
handed  her  some  papers,  but  did  not  speak.  The 
papers  were  addressed  to  ''Eobert  Shirtliffe." 
Deborah  opened  them. 

They  were  her  discharge-papers  from  the  army 
after  three  years  of  honorable  and  courageous  service 

—143— 


HERO  TALES 


for  her  country.  Among  them  was  a  note  of  praise 
and  advice  in  the  handwriting  of  the  great  Washington, 
with  money  enough  to  pay  her  expenses  until  she 
should  be  able  to  find  a  home.  Deborah's  heart 
throbbed  with  thankfulness.  She  had  served  her 
country  well — and  now  she  held  her  reward. 

In  after  years,  when  Deborah  Sansom  was  happily 
married,  and  became  Mrs.  Gannet,  she  received  a  pen- 
sion from  the  government,  and  in  further  recognition 
of  her  heroism  she  was  awarded  a  grant  of  land  upon 
which  she  might  spend  the  rest  of  her  days. 

This,  then,  is  the  tale  of  an  American  Joan  of  Arc 
— an  American  girl  who  fought  under  the  flag  for  inde- 
pendence as  nobly  as  any  man,  and  helped  to  win  for 
the  world  the  freedom  which  to-day  beckons  to  the 
peoples  of  the  earth  to  come  hither  and  enjoy  its 
blessings. 


"The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles. 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory!" 


-144— 


I**"' " '" "  ■  *<-'-«-.«t^.„. 


BURNING  OF  SAN    FRANCISCO 


Copyriglit  liy  Underwood  >t  riideiwood 

RUINED  CITY  THAT  ROSE   FROM   ITS  ASHES 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  RUINED  CITY  THAT 
ROSE  TRIUMPHANT  FROM  ITS  ASHES 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  great  city 
tliat  fell  under  the  ruthless  hand  of  fate  and  was 
shaken  from  its  foundations  by  a  great  earthqual<e,  but  with- 
out greed   or  cowardice  arose  in   majesty  fronn  its  ashes,     it  is  a 
tale  of  heroism,  at  the  post  of  duty,  in  the  moment  of  despair  and  ruin. 

IT  WAS  after  a  terrible  earthquake  shock  had 
shaken  the  city  of  San  Francisco  to  its  founda- 
tions; a  crew  of  heroic  telegraph  operators  sat 
before  their  instruments,  sending  messages  to  the 
outside  world  telling  of  the  fearful  disaster,  and  the 
wreck  and  ruin  it  had  wrought. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  1906, 
shortly  after  daybreak — about  5:16 — an  earthquake 
had  visited  San  Francisco,  while  its  people  were 
wrapped  in  sleep,  and  had  heaved  the  streets  in  gro- 
tesque mounds,  twisting  the  car-tracks  in  all  manner  of 
forms,  and  hurling  the  once  majestic,  skyscraping 
buildings  to  the  ground  in  ragged  heaps.  Escaping 
gas  exploded  and  set  fire  to  the  debris ;  soon  the  great 
city  was  in  flames. 

The  roof  of  the  telegraph  building  had  been  torn  off, 
and  the  frequently  recurring  shocks  threatened  to 
shake  the  walls  in  upon  the  operators,  as  they  heroically 
stayed  at  their  posts,  pleading  to  the  world  to  send 
relief  to  the  stricken  inhabitants  of  the  once  beautiful 
metropolis  of  the  Pacific  slope. 

—145— 


HERO  TALES 


In  the  midst  of  the  horror,  the  little  instrument 
ticked : 

*' An  earthquake  hit  us  at  5 :16  o'clock  this  morning, 
wrecking  several  buildings,  and  wrecking  our  offices. 
They  are  carting  dead  from  the  fallen  buildings.  Fii'e 
all  over  town.  There  is  no  water,  and  we  have  lost  our 
power.  I  am  going  to  get  out  of  office,  as  we  have  a 
little  shake  every  few  minutes,  and  it's  me  for  the  simple 
life.  ''R,  San  Fran.,  5:50  a.  m." 

This  is  the  first  word  that  the  world  had  of  the  terri- 
ble disaster  that  had  overcome  San  Francisco,  and  the 
message  will  long  be  preserved  in  the  records  of  the 
telegraph  company. 

For  a  brief  interval,  the  anxious  operators  at  the 
New  York  end  of  the  telegraph  line,  were  without 
further  word.  They  were  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
first  message  was  the  dream  of  some  overwrought 
operator.  There  was  another  tremor  over  the  wire. 
This  time  the  superintendent  of  the  force  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, confirmed  the  first  message.  A  continuous  stream 
of  messages  followed,  giving  the  waiting  world  a  mental 
picture  of  the  horrible  scenes  being  enacted  in  the  ruined 
city;  sketches  of  the  raging  flames,  consuming  every- 
thing in  their  path,  even  to  human  lives,  were  vividly 
drawn.  The  hurrying  crowds,  terror-stricken  by  the 
flames  and  falling  buildings,  fled  into  the  hills,  some 
carrying  the  few  possessions  which  they  had  been  able 
to  snatch  from  destruction;  others,  half-clad,  with 
empty  hands,  caught  utterly  unprepared,  were  fortu- 
nate to  escape  with  their  lives.  A^Hiite,  black,  and 
yellow  men  and  women  were  hurrying  along  together, 
rich  and  poor,  brothers  alike  in  this  time  of  distress. 

The  waiting  world  could,  in  fancy,  see  the  raging 
walls  of  flame,  consuming  the  great  office-buildings; 
they  could  see  a  fiery  finger  stretch  across  the  streets 

—146— 


THE  RUINED  CITY 


and  clutcli  the  doomed  structures,  transforming  them 
into  raging  furnaces  of  fire,  only  to  sweep  on  to  the  next 
block  of  buildings,  leaving  the  skeleton  frames  to  topple 
tempest  of  fire.  Unheeding  the  repeated  warnings  of 
steel  and  blocks  of  stone  in  every  direction. 

The  heroic  soldiers  and  firemen,  as  they  slowly 
retreated,  stubbornly  fought  the  advance  of  the  tor- 
rents of  flame,  pulling  down  buildings  or  blowing  them 
up  with  tremendous  charges  of  dynamite,  for  the  water 
mains  had  been  destroyed  by  the  twisting  of  the  earth 
in  its  first  upheaval. 

All  this,  and  more,  was  flashed  to  the  world  by  the 
heroic  telegraph  operators,  seated  in  the  midst  of  the 
tempest  of  fire.  Unlieeding  the  repeated  warnings  of 
the  soldiers  to  flee,  they  stuck  to  their  posts  of  duty  until 
the  hotel  across  the  street  actually  caught  fire,  and  a 
charge  of  dynamite  had  been  placed  to  wreck  the 
majestic  structure  in  hopes  that  the  flames  might  be 
checked. 

Suddenly,  the  little  instrument  began  to  rattle: 
"Goodbye,"  and  the  wire  was  silent. 

Then  came  an  hour  of  intense  anxiety.  The  opera- 
tors hovered  over  the  receiving  instruments  in  New 
York,  three  thousand  miles  distant,  hoping  for  just  one 
more  word  from  their  fellow-workers  across  a  conti- 
nent, fearful  for  the  fate  of  the  daring  operators.  The 
instrument  began  to  click. 

"I'm  back  in  the  office,  but  they  are  dynamiting  the 
building  next  door,  and  I've  got  to  get  out." 

The  chief  electrician,  still  true  to  his  duty,  had  crept 
back  into  the  endangered  building  to  send  the  message 
to  his  chiefs,  that  the  waiting  thousands  of  friends  of 
the  distressed  people  in  the  distant  city  might  have  the 
consolation  of  being  in  touch  with  the  wrecked  city,  if 
not  with  their  friends  themselves. 

—147— 


HERO  TALES 


Then  from  Oakland,  a  neighboring  town  on  the 
Pacific,  came  the  news  that  the  operators,  remaining  at 
their  posts  in  the  burning  city  until  the  last  moment, 
had  been  forced  to  flee ;  that  Oakland  had  taken  up  the 
duty  and  would  speak  for  the  destroyed  metropolis. 

For  three  days  the  fire  raged,  and  the  cordons  of 
soldiers,  sailors,  firemen,  policemen,  and  citizens  cour- 
ageously fought  the  overwhelming  disaster  in  vain.  It 
was  not  until  ten  days  after  the  first  shock  that  the  fire 
burned  itself  out. 

The  sjoirit  of  the  homeless  people  was  touching  in  its 
helpfulness  and  generosity.  No  one  tried  to  take 
advantage  of  his  brother's  misfortune.  It  requires 
more  than  pain  or  loss  to  make  tragedy,  when  the  spirit 
of  a  strong  people  shows  up  bravely  and  nobly  to  meet 
its  fate,  as  it  did  in  the  stricken  city  of  the  Pacific. 

As  the  shock  of  the  first  news  of  the  catastrophe 
wore  off,  the  people  of  the  nation  rose  as  one,  and 
offered  their  all  in  the  assistance  of  the  needy  refugees. 
Poor  or  rich,  men,  women,  and  children,  poured  their 
wealth  into  a  common  fund  for  food,  clothing,  and 
shelter.  Great  relief  trains  were  loaded  with  supplies, 
and  rushed  across  the  continent  with  the  right-of-way 
over  all  railroad-systems.  Passengers  on  fast  west- 
bound trains  saw  flying  freights  rush  by,  every  car 
labeled,  '*San  Francisco  Relief." 

Heroic  deeds  were  of  momentary  occurrence,  cour- 
age and  fortitude  standing  out  in  grand  and  spotless 
majesty  against  the  flame-red  background  of  the 
desolated  city;  but  the  noblest  of  all  was  the  spirit  of 
the  San  Franciscans,  who,  witnessing  the  destruction 
of  their  beautiful  city  in  a  few  short  hours,  heroically 
set  to  work  and  lifted  from  the  still  warm  ashes,  a  new 
city  that  promises  to  be  more  beautiful  than  the  city  of 
old, — greater,  more  splendid,  and  more  powerful. 

—148— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SOUTHERNER  WHO 
LOVED  TWO  FLAGS 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  Southerner 
who,  when  his  loved  ones  were  in  danger,  fought  for  his 
home  as  a  father  would  for  his  children,  and  then,  when  his 
country  needed  manhood,  offered  his  valor  and  his  life.    It  is  a  tale 
of  a  man  who  loved  two  flags  and  defended  them  both  when  duty  called. 

T  WAS  down  in  old  Virginia,  on  a  November  day, 
in  1835,  that  the  hearts  in  a  southern  home  were 
gladdened  by  the  arrival  of  a  boy.  The  old  home 
for  generations  had  been  intensely  patriotic,  and 
sires  and  grandsires  had  stood  on  the  fighting  line  in 
the  American  wars.  The  mother's  heart  rejoiced  that 
now  there  was  another  heir  to  this  home  of  patriotism. 

"We  will  send  him  to  West  Point,"  said  his  mother. 
' '  He  must  be  an  army  man. ' ' 

Some  years  later,  the  youth,  handsome  and  manly, 
stood  in  the  lines  at  the  great  military  institute  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson.  His  courageous  nature  and  sol- 
dierly manner  won  him  the  friendship  of  his  military 
superiors,  and"  he  was  the  idol  of  his  fellows,  but  his 
impatient  courage  thirsted  for  action.  The  drills,  the 
dash  of  the  batteries,  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  and 
the  sweep  of  the  cavalry  appealed  to  his  martial  spirit. 
The  blood  of  his  fathers  was  in  him,  and  this  gallant  lad 
longed  to  be  on  the  battlefield. 

It  was  not  long  afterward  that  the  Comanche  In- 
dians were  in  revolt  against  the  Government.    Astride 

—149— 


HERO  TALES 


a  gallant  charger,  at  the  head  of  a  detachment  of  sol- 
diers, sat  this  youth,  now  a  lieutenant,  carrying  the 
American  flag  through  the  wild  and  savage  lands  of 
the  West. 

"It  is  a  dangerous  expedition,"  said  the  major,  as 
he  detailed  the  young  lieutenant  to  lead  a  force  against 
the  Indians. 

The  march  was  long  and  difficult,  through  moun- 
tains and  across  arid  plains ;  three  hundred  miles,  with- 
out an  incident  to  break  the  monotony,  until  one  day 
the  soldiers  halted,  and  in  a  valley  below  them  they 
could  see  the  smoke  from  an  Indian  village. 

''Come  on,  boys,"  ordered  the  young  lieutenant. 
''It  is  the  Comanches," 

They  advanced  stealthily,  but  the  Indians  had  been 
warned  by  treacherous  allies  of  the  white  men,  and 
were  in  a  strong  position  for  defense  in  the  dense 
thickets  in  the  valley. 

The  Comanche  yell  vibrated  through  the  hills.  The 
savages  in  war  paint  sprang  forward  with  their  guns 
and  bows. 

"It  is  a  death  trap, ' '  observed  the  young  lieutenant. 
"We  have  been  drawn  into  it  by  their  cunning."     -- 

"Come  on,  boys,"  he  shouted,  and,  with  pistol  in 
hand,  the  young  lieutenant  led  his  men  to  the  fearful 
struggle  between  life  and  death.  The  fighting  was 
sharp  and  desperate.  The  combat  was  hand  to  hand. 
The  canyon  resounded  with  the  shots  from  the  soldiers 
and  the  battle-cries  of  the  savages. 

In  the  clash  and  din,  stood  the  young  lieutenant. 
With  almost  superhuman  strength,  he  grappled  with 
the  savages,  now  using  his  sabre  and  pistol,  and  again 
relying  only  upon  his  own  strong  arms. 

' '  Ugh ! ' '  He  staggered  back.  A  flying  arrow  had 
buried  its  head  in  his  breast.    He  stood  for  an  instant 

—150— 


THE  SOUTHERNER 


stunned.  Then,  waving  his  pistol  above  his  head,  he 
shouted:  "Come  on,  boys!  Come  on!"  and  thrust 
himself  into  the  combat  with  greater  vigor  than  ever. 

The  wound  began  to  weaken  him.  Sharp  pains  shot 
through  his  body.  Turning  to  one  of  his  soldiers,  he 
ordered : 

''Pull  this  thing  out." 

The  soldier  grasped  the  shaft  and  pulled,  but  it  was 
imbedded  too  deeply  and  did  not  move. 

Throwing  himself  on  the  ground  and  lying  at  full 
length  on  his  side,  the  young  lieutenant  ordered : 

"Put  your  foot  against  my  side  and  try  it  again. 
Pull  hard!" 

The  shaft  gave  way  and  slipped  from  his  breast, 
leaving  the  arrow-head  deep  in  the  flesh. 

"Come  on,  boys,"  he  shouted,  jumping  to  his  feet, 
"Come  on." 

Again  he  staggered — and  fell.  A  shot  from  the 
Comanches  had  pierced  his  lung.  He  lay  unconscious 
on  the  ground.  As  the  soldiers  bore  him  tenderly  from 
the  field,  the  Comanches  fled  in  terror  through  the 
hills. 

"He's  a  brave  lad,"  said  the  Major,  "one  of  the 
bravest  I  ever  saw." 

The  arrow  was  removed  from  his  breast  and  for 
weeks  the  young  lieutenant  lay  close  to  death. 

It  was  some  years  later.  Time  brings  many  changes. 
The  American  people  were  in  a  fearful  conflict  of 
brother  against  brother.  Under  the  flag  of  the  Con- 
federacy, fighting  for  his  beloved  Virginia,  was  this 
same  lieutenant,  now  a  major-general.  With  the  same 
daring  and  courage  as  of  old,  he  was  leading  the  cavalry 
against  the  flag  under  which  in  years  gone  by  he  had 
nearly  lost  his  life,  and  which  he  still  loved,  but  from 
which  he  was  now  parted  bv  the  ruthless  hand  of  fate. 

—151— 


HERO  TALES 


Then  the  war  was  over.  The  gallant  fighter  who 
had  lost  under  the  new  flag,  retired  to  his  plantation 
in  old  Virginia,  his  conscience  clear  but  his  heart  sad. 

Years  passed,  and  the  "call  to  arms"  again  swept 
the  country  which  had  grown  great  in  its  power  and 
was  now  taking  its  stand  for  freedom  in  the  cause  of 
a  weaker  brother,  ordering  Old  Spain  to  release  the 
chains  that  bound  Cuba. 

In  the  front  ranks,  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 
rode  a  stalwart  figure,  his  sword  at  his  side,  and  sitting 
in  his  saddle  as  if  born  to  battle.  The  strains  of  martial 
music  echoed  along  the  lines.  Shot  and  shell  raged 
about  him.  As  the  smoke  cleared  away,  there  were 
cheers  and  shouts  and  waving  of  flags.  There  sat  the 
old  fighter,  once  again  under  the  flag  with  which  he 
won  his  first  victory  as  a  young  lieutenant,  and  now 
wearing  the  epaulets  of  a  major-general  of  volunteers 
in  the  American  lines  against  the  Spanish. 

It  was  a  bright,  tropical  day  when  the  major- 
general  entered  the  city  of  Havana  to  the  strains  of 
the  national  anthem  of  the  republic,  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  waving  above  him. 

^ '  All  hail  to  the  Governor  of  the  province ! ' '  shouted 
the  throngs.  ''This  is  the  new  American  governor." 
And  the  Cubans,  in  their  joy,  almost  kissed  the  ground 
upon  which  he  walked. 

Thus  it  was,  that  the  name  of  Fitzhugh  Lee,  became 
one  of  the  most  beloved  by  the  American  people ;  and, 
when  some  years  later,  he  passed  to  the  great  army  of 
eternity,  two  flags  floated  over  his  grave,  and  these 
words  were  on  the  lips  of  the  people:  "He  was  a  foe 
without  hate. ' ' 


—152— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  GIRL  CANNONEER 
WHO  WON  A  SERGEANT'S  HONORS 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  cannoneer's  wife 
who  followed  her  husband  into  battle  and  stepped  to 
his  post  of  duty  at  the  gun  when  he  fell  mortally  wounded. 
It  is  a  tale   of   a   woman's   valor  and    a    race   that   has   always 
stood   strong    whenever  the    glorious    flag   of   freedom    is    in    danger. 

IT  WAS  the  twenty-eighth  day  of  June,  in  1778. 
The  great  armies,  which  were  engaged  in  one  of 
the  world's  most  decisive  struggles,  were  on  the 
plains  of  Monmouth  along  the  hij  Is  of  New  Jersey. 
Riding  up  and  down  the  lines   of  the  American 
forces  was  the  great  Washington,  urging  on  the  sol- 
diers of  freedom  with  words  of  encouragement  and 
command. 

The  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  British  glittered  in 
the  sunlight,  and  at  their  head  rode  the  gallant  General 
Clinton,  whose  military  bravery  had  won  for  him  the 
admiration  of  Europe. 

The  fighting  was  fierce  and  determined.  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  a  coward  under  either  flag.  Shell  and 
shot  were  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  and  the 
beat  of  every  instant  left  a  martyr  on  the  field. 

The  issue  of  the  battle  was  doubtful.  Neither  side 
knew  which  was  to  be  the  victor,  for  triumph  seemed 
within  the  grasp  of  either,  at  the  instant. 

Suddenly,  the  officers  of  the  American  lines  were 
seized  with  consternation. 

—153— 


HERO  TALES 


**Eetreat!"  was  the  order  that  rang  through  their 
ranks.  The  soldiers,  who  were  pushing  their  way 
gallantly  toward  the  enemy,  hesitated  an  instant  in 
dismay.  They  could  hardly  believe  their  own  ears. 
The  lines  were  broken  by  fear,  and  the  men  turned  in 
every  direction,  bewildered. 

Retreat — at  the  moment  of  victory!  Such  a  thing 
had  never  been  known  in  the  annals  of  war. 

''Halt!"  rang  the  command  through  the  lines. 

The  great  Washington,  with  anger  in  his  face, 
dashed  along  the  field. 

"Back  to  your  places!"  he  shouted.  "How  dare 
you  retreat  in  the  midst  of  this  battle?" 

The  soldiers,  blushing  with  shame,  fell  back  into 
line. 

"How  came  this  confusion?"  demanded  Wash- 
ington of  General  Lee,  who  was  in  command  of  the 
forces. 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  replied  the  general.  "The 
order  came  from  the  ranks." 

"Can  you  hold  command,  now?"  inquired  Wash- 
ington. 

"I  can,  sir,"  replied  General  Lee,  "and  I  will  be  the 
last  to  leave  the  field." 

The  battle  again  was  on — with  fiercer  daring  than 
ever.  The  men  were  fighting  under  the  new  inspira- 
tion. In  the  thickest  of  the  conflict  was  an  Irish  lad, 
named  Tom  Pitcher,  who  had  come  to  cast  in  his  for- 
tunes with  the  new  land.  Not  for  an  instant  had  he  left 
his  post  as  artilleryman,  even  in  the  call  for  retreat. 

"I'll  not  retreat,"  he  had  muttered,  "as  long  as 
there  is  another  man  on  the  field  to  fight." 

By  the  side  of  this  brave  lad  was  a  young  woman, 
scarcely  out  of  her  girlhood.  It  was  Molly,  his  wife, 
and  her  face  was  set  with  determination, 

—154— 


THE  GIRL  CANNONEER 


'*I  will  follow  Tom  through  the  army,"  she  had 
said.  *  'I  can  help  the  soldiers  when  they  are  in  trouble, 
and  I  can  stand  it  as  well  as  he." 

The  laughing  eyes  and  keen  wit  of  Molly  had 
brought  cheer  to  many  of  the  heart-sick  soldiers. 
Patiently  she  had  administered  to  their  needs,  and 
tenderly  she  had  bound  their  bleeding  wounds.  Under 
the  fierce  fire  of  the  battle,  she  had  slipped  through  the 
fighting  line  to  the  brook  nearby  and  brought  water  for 
the  parched  throats  of  the  soldier  boys.  The  day  was 
intensely  hot.  Once  more  Molly  ran  to  the  brook  and 
returned  with  the  cooling  water  to  quench  their  thirst. 

^'Here  is  another  pail  of  water,"  she  shouted  good- 
naturedly. 

The  words  had  hardly  escaped  her  lips,  when  a 
deadly  ball  whizzed  past  her  head — and  Tom  lay  life- 
less at  her  side.  A  sob  choked  her,  but,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  she  sprang  to  the  gun  by  which 
the  brave  cannoneer  had  fallen.  Standing  behind  the 
great  gun,  she  lighted  the  fuse.  Fire  burst  from  its 
mouth.  Boom!  Boom!  It  echoed  across  the  battle- 
field. Again  she  fired,  and  again,  reloading  it  with  the 
agility  of  a  trained  artilleryman. 

''We  will  take  charge  of  that  gun,'*  said  one  of  the 
soldiers. 

' '  Stand  back, ' '  replied  Molly. 

The  cheers  of  the  soldiers  rang  down  the  line.  The 
battle  was  near  its  end,  but  there  in  the  ranks  stood 
Molly  Pitcher — a  cannoneer. 

When  the  battle  was  over,  and  the  British  were  in 
retreat,  the  soldiers  gathered  about  her  to  praise  her 
courage,  but  she  could  not  hear  their  words.  The  brave 
little  woman  had  sunk  to  the  ground  over  the  lifeless 
body  of  her  Tom,  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would 
break. 

—155— 


HERO  TALES 


The  next  day  the  story  of  Molly  Pitcher  passed 
through  the  camp.  General  Greene  listened  to  it  atten- 
tively.    A  few  moments  later  he  entered  Molly's  tent. 

"Come,  my  brave  girl,"  spoke  the  General.  "I 
want  to  take  you  to  General  Washington." 

Molly,  with  true  feminine  instinct,  glanced  down 
at  her  tattered  garments.  She  was  begrimed  with 
powder  and  battle  smoke. 

Only  a  moment  she  hesitated.  Then  she  said,  ''I'll 
go,  General,  but  you'll  have  to  take  me  just  as  I  am." 

As  they  reached  the  tent  of  the  great  commander,  he 
arose  with  his  grave  and  stately  manner,  and  with  a 
courteous  bow  to  the  Irish  girl,  hf^  extended  his  hand. 

''You  made  a  brave  stand  at  the  gun,"  he  said.  "I 
am  going  to  give  you  the  honor  of  a  sergeant's  com- 
mission. You  will  have  a  sergeant's  pension  as  long 
as  you  live!" 

Such  is  the  tale  of  Molly  Pitcher — the  girl-sergeant 
of  the  American  Eevolution.  It  is  seldom  that  a 
woman  is  called  upon  to  meet  such  a  test  of  courage  as 
this;  but  the  test  of  fortitude  still  comes  to  women 
every  day  in  another  way — in  the  home  and  in  the  paths 
of  duty. 


"Now,  woman,  bow  your  aching  head. 
And  weep  in  sorrow  o'er  your  dead! 

"And  since  she  has  played  a  man's  full  part, 
A  man's  reward  for  her  loyal  heart! 
And  Sergeant  Molly  Pitcher's  name 
Be  writ  henceforth  on  the  shield  of  fame! 

"Oh!  Molly,  with  your  eyes  so  blue! 
Oh,  Molly,  Molly,   here's  to  you! 
Sweet  honor's  roll  will  aye  be  richer 
To  hold  the  name  of  Molly  Pitcher." 


—156— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  AIRSHIP  THAT  FELL 
FROM  THE  CLOUDS 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  mastery 
of  the  air  and  the  men  who  offered  their  lives  to 
prove  a  theory  of  science,  defying  the  dangers  of  the  ele- 
ments to  solve  a  problem  that  had  puzzled  the  brains  of  man  for 
centuries,  but  which  to-day  is  being  mastered  by  the  genius  of  invention. 

IT  WAS  the  eighteenth  day  of  September,  in  1908. 
On  the  parade  grounds  at  Fort  Meyer,  just  out- 
side of  the  national  capital  at  Washington,  were 
gathered  the  military  engineers  of  the  United 
States  army,  discussing  the  methods  of  warfare,  of  the 
future.  The  armies  of  the  nations  were  alarme.d  by 
the  rumors  of  a  new  contrivance  of  science  which  was 
to  make  war  more  deadly  than  ever  before;  a  con- 
trivance by  which,  while  soldiers  were  asleep  on  their 
arms,  a  great  black  monster  would  creep  over  them  in 
the  clouds  and  unloose  the  furies  of  modern  explosives 
upon  them.  Such  was  its  diabolical  power  that  whole 
armies  would  be  swept  from  existence  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  victory. 

There  were  rumors  of  a  great  war  between  England 
and  Germany.  It  was  whispered  that  regiments  of 
the  Kaiser's  soldiers  were  then  secreted  in  London, 
ready  to  capture  the  great  capital  of  the  British  Em- 
pire; and  that  Germany  had  solved  the  mystery  of 
aerial  navigation,  and  at  the  first  break  of  friendly 
relations  between  the  two  great  powers,  of  the  Old 

—157— 


HERO  TALES 


World,  huge  military  balloons  would  steal  across  the 
English  channel  and  destroy  its  foremost  city. 

These  were  the  wild  reports,  partially  credited  in 
military  circles,  that  were  made  more  astounding  by 
the  truth  that  England  was  in  fear  and  that  the  popu- 
lace were  actually  haunted  by  the  apparition  in  the 
clouds.  That  France  and  Germany  were  engaged  upon 
secret  experiments  concerning  the  mastery  of  the  air, 
was  well  known.  That  America,  most  progressive  of 
all  nations,  could  ill  afford  to  ignore  the  problem  of 
military  operations  in  the  clouds  was  the  consensus  of 
military  opinion  throughout  the  army  and  navy. 

This  was  the  occasion  of  the  gathering  of  military 
strategists  on  the  Fort  Meyer  parade-grounds  that  day. 
Two  Americans,  the  Wright  brothers,  had  thrown  con- 
sternation into  the  armies  by  riding  through  the  air 
in  strange  contrivances  which  soared  like  birds,  circ- 
ling over  cities  and  rising  and  alighting  with  grace,  at 
the  will  of  the  man  at  the  wheel.  Wilbur  Wright,  one 
of  the  brothers,  was  at  this  time  astounding  France 
with  his  daring  journeys  into  the  skies,  and  royalty 
was  gathering  about  him  to  pay  homage  to  his  genius. 
The  great  Count  Zeppelin  was  driving  his  dirigible 
balloon  across  the  valleys  of  Germany,  only  to  be 
wrecked  by  a  storm  at  the  very  moment  of  his  triumph. 

On  this  September  day,  Orville  Wright,  who  had 
remained  in  the  United  States,  in  conference  with  his 
home  government,  was  to  demonstrate  his  mastery  of 
the  strange  machine  which  he  and  his  brother  invented, 
and  which  was  known  as  the  aeroplane.  Though 
heavier  than  air,  the  aeroplane  could  fly  like  an  eagle. 
He  had  proven  many  times  his  own  daring  in  ascending 
into  the  clouds  alone,  but  on  this  day  he  was  to  demon- 
strate that  his  aeroplane  could  carry  two  men  with 
safety.    This  was  in  military  opinion  a  great  achieve- 

—158— 


THE  AIRSHIP 


ment,  for  thus  it  was  made  possible  for  an  officer  of 
the  army  to  rise  into  the  clouds  in  company  with  an 
engineer  who  could  survey  the  "lay  of  the  land"  and 
the  enemy's  lines. 

A  young  officer,  Lieutenant  Thoma^s  E.  Selfridge, 
of  the  United  States  army,  was  to  make  the  ascent  with 
the  genius  of  the  aeroplane. 

The  wizard,  Wright,  had  been  making  successful 
flights  for  some  weeks,  to  the  astonishment  and  delight 
of  the  American  military  strategists,  for  the  purpose 
of  convincing  the  Government  that  the  aeroplane  was 
now  a  perfected  machine  for  warfare.. 

The  event  of  the  day,  which  was  to  further  develop 
its  possibilities,  had  created  the  keenest  interest.  Lieu- 
tenant Selfridge  was  in  a  sense  the  central  figure  of  the 
occasion.  It  is  in  these  men,  who  dare  to  risk  their 
lives  for  the  solution  of  some  problem,  that  may  revo- 
lutionize society,  that  real  heroism  dwells. 

The  weird  aeroplane  was  rolled  on  to  the  parade- 
grounds.  An  anxious  crowd  gathered  around  it.  Mili- 
tary officers  discussed  its  mechanism.  The  inventor 
tested  its  intricate  ''nerves"  and  "muscles,"  as  though 
it  were  a  living,  breathing  thing.  There  were  moments 
of  interesting  delay  when  the  confident  inventor  re- 
marked : 

"Are  you  ready?" 

"I  am,"  replied  Lieutenant  Selfridge. 

The  men  stepped  into  the  machine  and  were  seated. 
The  spectators  cheered  as  the  aeroplane  throbbed  and 
then  seemed  to  rise  like  a  bird. 

"Is  there  any  word  that  you  want  to  leave?"  asked 
one  of  the  officers  jovially  to  the  lieutenant  as  they 
waved  farewell. 

"If  I  don't  come  back,  goodbye,"  He  called  good- 
naturedly. 

—159— 


HERO  TALES 


The  strange  machine  wavered  above  their  heads. 
Then  it  seemed  to  catch  the  breath  of  the  winds.  It 
sailed  and  soared  with  the  grace  of  the  lark.  The  spec- 
tators broke  into  spontaneous  applause.  Again  and 
again,  it  encircled  the  parade-grounds  in  the  clouds. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  exclaimed  a  military  officer. 

"The  science  of  aerial  navigation  is  solved,"  re- 
marked another. 

The  crowd  again  broke  into  cheers, — but  in  an  in- 
stant the  aeroplane  seemed  to  halt.  It  shook  as  if  in 
a  convulsion.  Then,  without  further  warning  it  dove 
headlong  toward  the  earth. 

"My  God,"  cried  a  military  officer.  "She  is  fall- 
ing ! " 

The  hearts  of  the  spectators  almost  stopped  beating. 
They  stood  aghast,  too  frightened  to  speak.  The  weird 
machine  struck  upon  the  earth  and  was  dashed  into 
pieces.  Beneath  the  wreckage  lay  the  two  men.  The 
inventor  Wright  was  hovering  between  life  and  death, 
but  the  body  of  Lieutenant  Selfridge  was  lifeless.  He 
had  met  instant  death. 

Sorrow  rested  over  the  great  throng.  The  man  who 
possibly  had  come  nearer  the  conquest  of  the  air  than 
any  other  living  man,  except  possibly  his  brother,  lay 
for  days  in  the  hospital  fighting  that  greatest  of  con- 
querors— Death. 

The  body  of  the  brilliant  young  military  officer,  who 
had  been  graduated  with  high  honors  at  West  Point 
and  held  the  implicit  confidence  of  his  government,  was 
laid  to  rest. 

Thus  it  was  that  aerial  navigation  claimed  one  of 
its  early  sacrifices.  But  the  genius,  Wright,  won  his 
battle  with  Fate,  and  some  months  later  returned  to 
his  conquest  of  the  air  with  greater  determination  than 
ever  before. 

—160— 


THE  WRIGHT  AEROPLANE   IN   CONQUEST  OF  THE  AIR 


Copyright  liy  I'lulerwood  &  X'nderwdoil 

DEATH   OF   LIEUTENANT  SELFRIDGE 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WATAUGA  BOYS  IN 
THE  CHARGE  OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN 


This  is  the  tale  of  woodsmen 
who  heard  that  their  courage  was  challenged  and  rose 
to  defend  their  honor.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  hardihood   of  the 
forests,  in  which  strong  men  who  had  lived  close  to  the  heart  [of 
nature,  carried  the  spirit  of  liberty  into  battle  and  won  a  decisive  victory. 

ALONG  time  ago,  back  in  1769,  down  in  the  moun- 
tains of  the  present  Tennessee,  there  settled 
on  the  banks  of  the  Watauga  River,  a  band 
which  soon  became  known  throughout  the 
region  as  the  '' Watauga  Boys."  Most  of  them  had 
come  from  Virginia  and  were  exploring  the  new  coun- 
try as  soldiers  of  fortune.  On  the  river  they  built  a 
stronghold  as  a  place  of  refuge  from  the  Indians. 

The  hearts  of  these  woodsmen  knew  only  the  free- 
dom of  nature,  and  the  tyranny  of  the  British  along  the 
coast  did  not  reach  their  mountain  home,  until  about  the 
time  that  the  American  Revolution  began.  Word  came 
from  the  forests  of  the  bravery  of  the  *' Watauga 
Boys,"  and  their  fights  with  the  savages,  but  little  was 
known  of  their  life  except  that  their  fort  had  grown 
into  a  settlement,  and  that  a  strange  government  had 
been  established  there,  in  which  the  men  of  the  woods 
ruled  themselves  on  a  basis  of  freedom  and  equality. 

The  British  were  now  sweeping  the  South,  and  along 
the  coast  down  to  Georgia  were  everywhere  conquering. 
The  Americans  were  becoming  disheartened.    The  men 

—161— 


HERO  TALES 


of  the  country  were  mostly  in  the  army  farther  north, 
and  it  was  left  largely  for  the  women  and  children  to 
protect  their  lives  and  their  homes. 

During  an  attack  on  one  of  the  settlements,  the 
British  soldiers,  knowing  that  the  men  of  the  place  were 
away  at  the  North,  approached  the  fort. 

"Boom!"  There  was  a  quick  report,  followed  by 
flashes  of  fire.  With  deadly  aim  the  balls  fell  into  the 
ranks  of  the  British  soldiers. 

''Halt!  What  means  this?"  shouted  the  com- 
mander. 

Another  volley  of  shot  fell  in  their  midst. 

"The  Americans  are  here!"  shouted  the  officers. 
"There  are  men  in  the  fort.  See,  they  stand  at  their 
guns ! ' ' 

The  confusion  was  such  that  the  British  soldiers, 
who  were  carelessly  armed,  in  the  confidence  inspired 
by  their  uninterrupted  conquest,  hurriedly  retreated 
without  an  attack  on  the  fort.  The  "men"  there  were 
no  other  than  women  ard  children  disguised  in  the 
clothes  of  their  fathers  and  brothers,  who  were  fighting 
with  Washington  farther  up  the  Atlantic  coast;  and 
they  had  won  their  first  victory. 

These  were,  indeed,  dark  times  for  the  Americans. 
Provisions  began  to  fail.  The  losses  on  the  battlefields 
were  threatening  to  leave  a  nation  without  men.  Such 
was  the  suffering  and  starvation  that  when  the  British 
entered  Charleston,  in  South  Carolina,  humanity  and 
wisdom  demanded  that  the  patriots  unfurl  the  white 
flag.  There  was  great  rejoicing  among  the  Tories 
throughout  the  nation. 

"The  South  is  ours!"  shouted  the  British  soldiers 
as  they  hurried  their  couriers  with  the  glad  tidings  to 
the  North  and  then  across  the  seas  to  the  King.  The 
wise  General  Clinton  had  purchased  the  friendship  of 

—162— 


THE  WATAUGA  BOYS 


the  savage  Cherokee  Indians,  and  they  were  to  lay  siege 
to  the  whole  Southern  country,  while  the  British  sol- 
diers pushed  on  to  the  North  and  united  their  forces 
with  the  King's  colors  in  the  vicinity  of  New  York,  for 
a  last  great  victory  that  should  crush  the  defiant  spirit 
of  liberty  from  the  Western  continent,  and  resound  as 
a  warning  to  the  peoples  of  the  earth. 

The  Indian  warriors  were  marching  to  the  north 
to  join  the  British  forces.  One  day,  as  they  passed 
tlirough  the  mountains  that  separate  the  Carolinas  and 
Tennessee,  a  yell  rang  out  that  shook  them  with  fear. 
There,  before  them  in  the  mountain-pass,  were  strange 
men  not  in  the  plumes  of  warriors,  but  wrapped  in  bear- 
skins, their  heads  covered  with  furs  and  with  foxtails 
nodding  from  them.    The  Indians  fled  in  terror. 

So  nonplussed  were  the  British  by  the  failure  of 
their  plans  that  they  sent  a  commander  with  twelve 
hundred  men  to  scour  the  mountains  and  gain  the  sym- 
pathies of  the  woodsmen. 

It  was  early  in  October,  in  1780,  when  Colonel 
Ferguson,  one  of  the  King's  most  skilled  riflemen, 
swung  into  the  foothills  and  pushed  his  way  into  the 
backwoods  and  mountains,  crushing  the  patriots  and 
driving  the  Tories  into  the  British  service. 

"I  warn  you  that  if  you  do  not  keep  the  peace,  I 
shall  find  it  necessary  to  attack  you,"  were  the  words 
that  he  sent  ahead  to  the  mountaineers. 

The  "Watauga  Boys"  were  holding  a  great  barbe- 
cue. Oxen  and  deer  were  roasting  over  the  fires,  and 
the  feast  was  at  its  height,  when  one  Shelby  rode  to  the 
river  bank,  hot  from  hard  riding,  and  brought  them  the 
word  from  Ferguson. 

''Very  well,"  exclaimed  the  feasters,  ''we  will  save 
them  the  trouble ! ' ' 

Sixteen  hundred  men,  in  buckskin  and  bearskin, 
—163— 


HERO  TALES 


carrying  long  rifles,  and  mounted  on  tough,  shaggy 
horses  were  soon  swinging  along  the  river  banks  and 
into  the  mountain  paths.  Their  hunting  shirts  were 
girded  in  by  bead-worked  belts,  and  the  trappings  of 
their  horses  were  stained  yellow  and  red. 

Three  days  later,  Colonel  Ferguson's  men  were 
still  in  the  wilds  of  King's  Mountain,  the  thickly- 
wooded  rock  ledge  on  the  borderline  between  North 
and  South  Carolina. 

All  night  long  the  backwoodsmen  rode  the  dim  forest 
trails  and  forded  the  rushing  rivers. 

* '  The  "Watauga  Boys  are  coming !  The  backwoods- 
men are  in  the  foothills!"  reported  a  rider  from  the 
outpost,  rushing  into  camp. 

"Let  them  come,"  growled  the  brave  King's  rifle- 
men. ' '  No  army  on  earth  would  dare  open  battle  with 
us  on  this  mountain  ledge." 

The  dauntless  colonel,  however,  as  a  matter  of 
precaution,  sent  back  for  reinforcements,  as  he  won- 
deringly  surveyed  from  the  craggy  ledge  this  strange 
foe. 

** Charge  I     Down  upon  them!     Charge!" 

The  voice  of  the  colonel  of  the  King's  regulars  rang 
across  the  cliffs. 

His  men,  with  set  bayonets,  charged  headlong. 
There  was  a  yell  like  that  of  the  beasts  of  the  forests. 
These  bear-skinned  denizens  of  the  woods  stood  their 
ground.  There  was  the  cracking  of  a  thousand  rifles, 
and  every  man  who  dared  enter  the  mountain-pass 
meant  another  man  dead  on  the  rocks. 

Never  in  all  their  experience  in  the  wars  under  the 
King's  colors  had  the  regulars  met  such  fighters  as 
these,  as  strong  and  as  brave  as  lions,  and  with  an  aim 
that  was  sure  and  rapid.  The  brilliant  uniform  of  the 
British  colonel  glittered  in  the  light,  as  with  his  sword 

—164— 


THE  WATAUGA  BOYS 


gripped  in  his  hand,  he  daringly  led  his  own  men  to  the 
charge — now  down  one  side  of  the  mountain,  now  down 
the  other.  The  backwoodsmen  stood  their  ground  with 
steady  aim,  falling  back  at  the  point  of  the  bayonets, 
only  to  plunge  forward  again  nearer  and  nearer  the 
ledge  with  their  deadly  fire. 

Colonel  Ferguson  raised  a  silver  whistle  to  his  lips 
and  signaled  his  men.  The  shrill  note  rang  through  the 
listening  ranks.  He  now  sat  astride  his  horse,  with 
sword  drawn  for  the  charge.  A  terrific  blaze  of  fire 
swept  the  bayoneteers. 

' '  Hurrah !     Hurrah !     Hurrah ! ' ' 

The  cheering  echoed  down  the  valley. 

The  backwoodsmen  had  gained  the  ridge!  There 
on  the  crest  of  King's  Mountain  stood  the  brave  Sevier, 
Shelby,  and  Campbell,  the  Watauga  Boys'  daring 
commanders. 

The  British  regulars  and  Tories  dispersed  in  con- 
fusion. 

A  white  flag  was  thrown  to  the  breeze. 

"Down  with  that  flag!"  shouted  the  gallant  Fergu- 
son in  rage. 

''On!    On!"  he  cried.    ''Charge!" 

"Steady,  boys,  aim." 

There  was  a  crack  of  the  rifles. 

"Ferguson!    Ferguson!"  was  the  cry. 

The  great,  white  war  horse  was  riderless.  Its 
gallant  colonel  lay  on  the  mountain  rocks.  Seven  bullets 
had  entered  his  body,  and  one  had  pierced  his  heart. 

Once  more  the  white  flag  swung  to  the  breeze. 
Nearly  four  hundred  of  the  King's  men  lay  dead  on  the 
battle-ground.  Twenty-eight  of  the  Watauga  Boys 
were  sleeping  on  the  heights  of  King's  Mountain.  The 
victory  was  won.  From  this  day  the  Americans  stub- 
bornly fought  their  way  to  the  final  triumph. 

—165— 


THE   TALE    OF  THE   ENGINEERS   WHO 
FATHOMED  THE  BLACK  CANYON 


This  is  the  tale  of  modern 
engineering;  a  tale  of  men  who  risk  their  lives 
in  performing  feats  such  as  the  world  has  never  before  known, 
whose  courage  and  skill  reclaim  lost  regions  to  civilization  and  con- 
quer the  mighty  forces  of  nature  to  increase  the  riches  of  all  mankind. 

THE  days  were  the  last  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Five  men  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  Gunnison 
Eiver,  gazing  into  the  seething  water,  three 
thousand  feet  below.  It  was  a  fearful  sight, 
the  water  whirling  along,  dashing  house-high  over  im- 
mense boulders,  and  throwing  its  spray  high  up  the 
sides  of  the  sheer,  rocky  banks.  With  handshakes  and 
farewells  to  the  little  crowd  who  were  watching  them, 
the  five  daring  men  lowered  themselves  into  the  canyon, 
even  to  the  brink  of  the  angry  torrent  below,  and 
landed  on  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock. 

Up  to  the  watching  men  above  was  wafted  the  sound 
of  revolver  shots,  the  signal  that  this  little  band  were 
off  on  their  dangerous  journey.  In  their  puny  boats, 
made  of  oak  frames  covered  with  canvas,  they  were 
soon  whirling  down  the  wild  stream.  The  rocks  in  the 
river  could  be  seen,  but  indistinctly.  The  high  preci- 
pices on  the  sides  of  the  river  cut  off  the  light  of  day, 
shrouding  the  wild  waters  in  a  depressing  gloom.  The 
men  in  the  boats  were  drenched  By  the  ice-cold  spray, 
thrown  twenty  feet  in  the  air,  as  the  water  dashed 


THE  ENGINEERS 


against  the  boulders.  On  they  flew,  their  keen,  watchful 
eyes  on  the  alert  for  the  treacherous  rocks.  Time  and 
again  they  were  dashed  to  the  shore,  and,  pulling  their 
boats  after  them,  they  climbed  over  the  slippery  rocks 
that  obstructed  their  progress.  The  canyon  grew 
narrower,  and  they  were  forced  to  tie  themselves 
together  in  order  to  prevent  being  shot  down  the  racing 
stream  as  bullets  from  a  gun. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  what  little  light 
filtered  into  narrow  fissures  in  the  earth's  crust,  was 
wholly  blotted  out  by  the  grim  cliffs,  and  the  river  was 
in  complete  darkness.  Then  the  little  band  of  men 
halted  for  the  night,  and  ate  a  meal  of  cold,  soggy  food. 

Damp  and  chilled,  they  laid  themselves  down  on  a 
great  rock  for  the  long  night  in  the  fearful  canyon,  until 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  sun  had  sent  a 
little  of  its  light  into  the  gorge.  Sleep  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  the  exhausted  men.  The  mad  rush  of  the  angry 
water,  plunging  against  their  rock,  dinned  in  their  ears 
all  night,  almost  stupefying  the  senses.  Stiff  and  sore, 
they  resumed  their  journey  in  the  morning,  battling 
their  way  down  the  canyon,  the  little  boats  whipped  and 
battered  by  the  tremendous  power  of  the  seething 
water.  All  day  they  continued  on  their  mad  trip,  at 
night  lying  on  a  rock,  and  twisting  and  turning  in  their 
fitful  slumbers,  constantly  disturbed  by  the  tremendous 
reverberations  of  the  rushing  stream. 

For  five  days  they  traveled  on,  slipping  over  rocks, 
floundering  through  shallow  pools  of  ice-cold  water, 
and  working  their  hearts  out  in  the  terrible  struggle. 
Their  food  was  failing,  and  they  were  growing  weak 
for  want  of  rest  and  nourishment.  Energy  and  vitality 
ran  low,  and,  to  the  sufferings  of  the  body,  were  added 
the  torments  of  the  soul.  Somewhere  ahead  was  a 
chance,  but  only  one  in  a  thousand,  of  finding  an  avenue 

—167— 


HERO  TALES 


of  escape  from  this  fearful,  tomb-like  place.    It  was  a 
time  to  try  the  soul. 

The  men  were  carefully  picking  their  way  along 
when,  with  a  horrifying  roar,  a  mass  of  stone  came 
hurtling  down  upon  them  from  the  heights  above.  With 
a  tremendous  splash  it  struck  the  river  in  front  of  them, 
sending  the  water  high  up  on  the  side  of  the  canyon, 
to  settle  back  into  the  racing  stream  with  a  suction  that 
nearly  swept  the  brave  men  off  their  feet.  Looking  up 
at  the  place  whence  the  awful  mass  of  rock  had  come, 
the  little  band  of  five  men  saw  figures  on  the  brink  of  the 
cliff,  thousands  of  feet  above  them.  The  wall  in  front 
was  sheer  and  impassable,  cutting  them  off  from  their 
f  ellowmen  as  surely  as  though  they  were  in  their  graves. 
For  half  an  hour  they  gazed  at  the  running  figures  far 
above,  the  first  sign  of  life  that  they  had  seen  since 
entering  the  fearful  gorge,  five  days  before.  They 
could  hardly  tear  themselves  away  from  the  sight,  to  go 
on  in  that  dark  chasm,  perhaps  never  to  come  out ;  but 
finally  they  arose,  and  crawling  and  limping  they 
passed  on  out  of  sight  of  the  figures  on  the  banks. 

For  three  weeks  the  men  endured  this  fearful  ordeal. 
Then  they  came  to  a  place  where  they  realized  they 
could  not  penetrate  further.  The  gorge  narrowed  and 
deepened.  They  were  obliged  to  swim  in  the  ice-cold 
water,  clutching  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  as  a  drowning 
person  clutches  a  life-preserver.  The  walls  had  nar- 
rowed to  twenty-eight  feet,  and  were  smooth  as  glass 
and  almost  perpendicular.  Through  the  narrow  pass 
the  water  rushed  like  a  mill-race.  The  men  stood  on  the 
brink,  gazing  at  the  torrent.  To  enter  it  meant  practical 
suicide — but  there  was  no  turning  back  now — they  must 
go  on.  Then  they  did  what  all  human  beings  do  when 
they  are  at  the  end  of  their  own  strength — they  bowed 
their  heads  and  prayed  for  succor  from  God. 

—168— 


THE  ENGINEERS 


''With  our  present  equipment  we  can  go  no  further, 
but  the  Black  Canyon  is  not  impenetrable,"  the  in- 
trepid leader  of  these  explorers,  W.  W.  Torrence,  of 
the  Reclamation  Bureau  of  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment, wrote  in  his  note-book,  and  then  replaced  it  in  its 
rubber  covering.  The  sun  next  morning  found  the 
desperate  men  clinging  to  the  side  of  the  river-bank  of 
sheer  rock,  2,500  feet  high  and  almost  as  smooth  as 
glare  ice. 

Using  the  tripod  legs  of  their  survey-outfit  as 
alpenstocks,  they  struggled  foot  by  foot  up  this  terrible 
cliff,  clutching  for  hand-holds  in  the  cracks  of  the  rock, 
Torrence  in  the  lead,  each  man  cautiously  paying  out 
the  slack  of  rope  that  bound  them  together.  Weak  and 
exhausted  after  their  weeks  of  privation  and  their 
almost  superhuman  fight  with  the  forces  of  nature  in 
the  canyon,  they  painfully  crawled  upward  like  flies. 
By  noon,  the  pangs  of  hunger  were  gnawing  at  their 
vitals,  but  they  could  not  stop  to  eat.  A  thousand  feet 
below  them  was  the  whirling  water;  towering  1,500 
feet  above  them  was  their  goal.  The  men  followed  on 
after  their  leader,  buoyed  up  with  the  nervous  strength 
of  men  fighting  for  their  lives. 

Toward  late  afternoon  despair  seized  one  of  the 
men,  who  realized  that  they  could  not  make  the  top 
before  night  came  upon  them,  and  that  they  would  have 
to  stand,  clinging  to  their  slight  hand-holds,  for  twelve 
interminable  hours.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  his  com- 
rades prevented  him  from  casting  himself  into  the 
abyss  at  once,  and  persuaded  him  to  creep  on  with  them, 
inch  by  inch,  until,  when  within  five  hundred  feet  of  the 
top,  night  closed  in  upon  them  with  a  rush. 

The  climbers  were  in  a  dreadful  plight.  Spending 
the  night  on  the  side  of  that  towering  cliff  seemed 
beyond  human  endurance,  and  it  was  decided  to  push 

—169— 


HERO  TALES 


on  in  the  dark.  For  five  long  hours  they  groped  their 
way  upward.  Utter  exhaustion  was  seizing  upon  them, 
and  they  were  all  almost  ready  to  give  up  and  fall  back 
into  the  chasm.  Torrence,  still  in  the  lead  finding  the 
foot-holds  for  his  followers,  cheered  and  urged  them 
on.  Suddenly,  his  hand  touched  a  twig,  and  he  gave  a 
ringing  shout,  for  he  had  seized  an  overhanging  bush 
of  sagebrush,  and  he  knew  that  at  last  he  was  at  the  top, 
under  God's  own  starry  sky — saved !  Panting,  reeking 
with  perspiration,  one  after  the  other  the  men  pulled 
themselves  over  the  brink,  and  on  hands  and  knees  crept 
clear  of  the  edge.    Then,  to  a  man,  they  collapsed. 

Within  a  year  the  daring  Torrence  had  completed 
plans  for  another  trip  through  the  fearful  canyon,  and 
with  his  fellow-engineer,  A.  L.  Fellows,  started  off  to 
encounter  over  again  the  terrible  experiences  of  the 
first  expedition.  Armed  with  a  rubber,  air-inflated  mat- 
tress, instead  of  a  boat,  on  which  to  float  or  rest,  they 
reached  the  point  where  the  first  expedition  was  forced 
to  give  up  and  flee  for  safety. 

They  threw  themselves  into  the  raging  waters  of  the 
narrow  pass,  and  were  hurled  along  at  a  fearful  rate, 
to  be  dashed  out  at  the  other  end  with  the  speed  of  a 
bullet.  For  days  the  daring  engineers  suffered  terrible 
jDrivations. 

Suddenly  rounding  a  bend  in  the  river,  they  came 
upon  a  fearful  sight  ahead.  The  river  dropped  com- 
pletely out  of  sight  under  a  frowning  cliff.  At  the  brinl^, 
the  water  was  raging  in  whirlpools.  Undaunted,  and 
with  the  determination  to  do  or  die,  they  plunged  into 
the  water,  and  were  swept  along  in  the  maelstrom, 
taking  blind  chances  of  perishing  from  being  dashed 
against  the  rocks  or  sucked  under  the  current.  Through 
the  black  tunnel  they  whirled,  the  waves  tearing  at  them 
as  if  endeavoring  to  pull  them  apart.    After  an  interm- 

—170— 


THE  ENGINEERS 


inable  length  of  time  they  were  spat  out  of  the  water 
into  clear  air.  Then,  like  frightened  children,  these 
strong  men,  relieved  at  last  of  all  fear,  clasped  each 
other  in  their  arms  and  laughed  and  wept. 

''Who  says  that  the  Black  Canyon  is  impassable?" 
exultantly  cried  Fellows. 

These  two  brave  men  had  traversed  its  whole  extent, 
where  no  human  being  had  ever  ventured  to  set  foot 
before,  and  from  their  report  the  government  was  able 
to  deflect  the  raging  waters  of  the  Gunnison  Eiver  into 
the  arid  desert  below  it,  adding  immensely  to  the  wealth 
of  Colorado.  For  the  sake  of  humanity,  Torrence  and 
Fellows  had  accomplished  what  none  had  ever  dared 
before,  and  what  probably  none  will  ever  undertake 
again. 

They  had  proved  to  civilization  that  the  forces  of 
nature  are  all  slaves  to  the  wonderful  power  of  man; 
that  there  is  nothing  on  the  face  of  the  earth  that 
courage  and  skill  cannot  master. 

The  torrents  that  raged  and  roared  about  these  dar- 
ing engineers,  threatening  to  devour  them  or  to  dash 
out  their  lives  against  the  rock-bound  walls,  have  cowed 
to  the  will  of  man.  To-day  that  raging  river  follows 
the  hand  of  engineers  submissively  six  miles  through 
the  base  of  a  great  mountain  in  Colorado  and  causes 
300,000  acres  of  volcanic  dust  to  ''bloom  like  a  rose" 
under  its  refreshing  waters. 


'Tis  Done— the  wondrous  thoroughfare 
Type  of  that  Highway  all  divine! 

No  ancient  wonder  can  compare 
With  this,  in  grandeur  of  design. 

"For,  'twas  no  visionary  scheme 

To  immortalize  the  builder's  name; 
No  impulse  rash,  no  transient  dream 
Of  some  mere  worshipper  of  Fame." 

—171— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    LOST    SHIP    AND 
THE  LOST  CREW 


This  is  a  tale  of  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  a  brave  commander  and  his  ship  and  crew 
In  the  hour  of  victory.    It  is  a  tale  of  valiant  men  who  carried  the 
American  flag  to  triumph  on  the  seas,  proclaiming  a  new  power  In 
the  world's  commerce,  and  then  was  lost— no  one  will  ever  know  where. 

IT  WAS  during  the  war  of  1812,  between  England 
and  the  new  repubh'c  of  the  western  continent. 
The  little  American  navy,  with  its  few  frigates 
and  sloops-of-war,  had  won  a  series  of  hard- 
fought  victories  against  the  larger  and  more  powerful 
navj  of  England.  For  years  the  British  navy  had 
ranged  the  seas,  secure  in  the  belief  that  it  held  the 
naval  su^oremacy  of  the  world. 

But  a  few  years  before,  1776-81,  these  two  nations 
had  been  engaged  in  a  fearful  struggle  on  land,  and 
though  the  Americans  had  wrested  their  freedom  from 
the  mother  country,  the  English  had  nothing  but  con- 
tempt for  them.  They  believed  that  they  could  easily 
dispose  of  the  comparatively  insignificant  navy  of  the 
young  nation.  The  little  ships  did  look  pitiful  beside 
their  greater  opponents.  They  did  not  have  trained 
sailors  and  commanders  like  the  English,  but  they  did 
have  courage  and  patriotism,  and  with  undaunted  spirit 
they  engaged  the  larger  ships  of  the  English  and  bore 
many  of  them  off  in  triumph  as  prizes,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  world,  as  well  as  of  the  English. 

—172— 


THE  LOST  SHIP 


The  sloops  of  the  Americans  had  been  built  with 
care,  and  with  an  eye  especially  to  speed.  The  stoutest 
of  them  all  was  the  Wasp,  commanded  by  the  gallant 
South  Carolinian,  Captain  Johnson  Blakeley,  and 
manned  by  as  brave  a  crew  as  ever  trod  a  deck.  In 
1814,  the  little  sloop  was  commissioned  as  a  privateer, 
to  prey  upon  the  navy  and  commerce  of  Great  Britain. 
She  was  equipped  with  twenty  thirty-two-pound  car- 
ronades  and  two  "long  Toms."  Her  crew  consisted  of 
one  hundred  and  seventy  men — a  mere  handful  in  com- 
parison with  the  six  or  seven  hundred  men  of  a  modern 
ship. 

Early  in  the  year  of  1814  the  little  privateer  set  out 
for  the  enemy  in  the  English  Channel,  venturing  to  the 
very  doors  of  her  foes.  Upon  reaching  the  English 
shores,  the  daring  Wasp  cruised  up  and  down  in  the 
very  path  of  the  enemy's  battleships  and  merchantmen, 
and  harried  the  British  commerce  without  mercy. 
Hither  and  thither  she  flew,  now  engaging  a  merchant- 
man under  convoy,  and,  again,  escaping  from  the  pur- 
suing frigates  by  her  superior  speed  and  the  skill  and 
vigilance  of  her  intrepid  commander. 

These  operations  continued  for  some  time,  and  the 
Wasp  still  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  One  fine 
morning  in  June,  1814,  while  in  pursuit  of  two  mer- 
chantmen, the  British  ship  Reindeer  hove  in  sight,  and 
though  weaker  than  the  Wasp,  both  in  guns  and  number 
of  men,  she  promptly  took  up  the  gage  thrown  by  the 
privateer.  Captain  Manners,  one  of  the  most  daring 
men  of  the  British  navy,  was  in  command  of  the  British 
ship. 

Soon,  the  beat  of  drums  called  the  sailors  of  the 
Wasp  to  their  stations,  and  the  Reindeer  responded. 
The  day  was  fine,  the  sea  calm  and  smooth,  with  a  light 
breeze  stirring.    On  the  forecastle  of  the  Reindeer  a 

—173— 


HERO  TALES 


carronade  had  been  set  up,  and  when  the  vessels  were 
within  range  this  was  fired  point  blank  at  the  American 
ship.  Five  times  the  carronade  was  discharged  at  the 
Wasp,  and  did  terrible  damage.  The  two  vessels  then 
came  together  with  a  crash,  and  were  locked  yard-arm 
to  yard-arm. 

The  muzzles  of  their  cannon  were  almost  touching 
as  they  exchanged  charge  after  charge.  The  din  was 
terrific.  Shot  poured  into  the  hulls  of  the  ships,  and 
splinters  were  flying  about,  more  deadly  than  the  shot 
itself.  Sailors  up  in  the  tops  could  not  see  the  deck, 
because  of  the  clouds  of  smoke  and  flying  splinters. 

The  havoc  wrought  on  the  English  ship  was  terrible, 
and  the  brave  commander.  Manners,  had  been  wounded, 
but  still  was  issuing  orders,  though  weak  and  faint. 
The  Americans  were  fighting  like  demons,  and  when 
the  English  sailors  charged  with  a  rush  to  carry  the 
Wasp,  they  were  met  with  pike  and  pistol,  and  were 
driven  back  to  the  stricken  Reindeer,  which  was  now 
settling. 

Again  the  English  sailors,  led  by  their  brave  cap- 
tain, tumbled  on  board  the  Wasp,  and  again  were  driven 
back,  this  time  with  great  loss.  Captain  Manners  fell 
with  a  ball  in  his  head,  as  brave  a  man  as  ever  fought 
against  great  odds. 

The  Americans  now  changed  tactics,  and  rushing 
for  the  side  of  the  Reindeer,  were  instantly  on  board, 
in  the  midst  of  the  wreckage,  fighting  like  savages  and 
sweeping  the  decks  before  them.  The  English  flag  was 
pulled  down,  and  the  Reindeer  was  safely  within  their 
possession,  another  prize  added  to  the  long  list. 

The  Wasp  burned  the  sinking  ship  after  taking  off 
the  prisoners,  and  set  out  for  other  prey,  elated  with 
its  victory.  The  dauntless  little  sloop  engaged  in  sev- 
eral battles  and  took  many  prizes.    She  was  a  continual 

—174— 


THE  LOST  SHIP 


menace  to  the  unwary  British  ships,  and  made  the 
highways  of  the  seas  dangerous  for  British  commerce. 
On  the  ninth  of  October,  she  met  a  Swedish  brig,  the 
last  vessel  ever  to  see  her  afloat.  From  that  day  she 
was  never  seen,  and  no  trace  of  the  brave  commander 
or  crew  was  ever  found. 

She  may  have  been  wrecked  on  some  deserted  coast, 
or  sunk  in  a  furious  storm,  but  no  certain  knowledge 
of  her  fate  has  ever  been  ascertained.  The  gallant  little 
ship  and  all  on  board  must  have  perished  in  one  of  the 
myriad  forms  of  peril  that  is  faced  by  those  who  sail 
the  seas ;  and  when  she  sank  there  went  down  as  brave 
a  captain  and  crew  as  ever  sailed  from  any  port  in  the 
defense  of  their  country. 


"O'er  the  high  and  o'er  the  lowly 
Floats  that  banner  bright  and  holy 

In  the  I'ays  of  Freedom's  sun, 
In  the  nation's  heart   embedded, 
O'er  our  Union  newly  wedded, 

One  in  all,  and  all  in  one." 

"Let  that  banner  wave  forever, 
May  its  lustrous  stai'S  fade  never, 

Till  the  stars  pale  on  high; 
While  there's  riglit  the  wrong  defeating. 
While  there's  hope  in  true  hearts  beating. 

Truth  and  freedom  shall  not  die. 

"As  it  floated  long  before  us. 
Be  it  ever  floating  o'er  us, 

O'er  our  land  from  shore  to  shore; 
There  are  freemen  yet  to  wave  it, 
Millions  who  would  die  to  save  it, 

Wave  it,  save  it,  evermore." 


—175— 


THE    TALE  OF    THE    LITTLE    KANSAN 
WHO  CONQUERED  A  SAVAGE  RACE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  Kansan 
who,  by  his  cunning  and  courage,  led  the  chief  of 
a  rebellious  people  into  captivity  under  pledge  of  peace  and 
loyalty.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  days  when  American  civilization  was 
sweeping  the  islands  of  the  Far  East  under  the  glorious  flag  of  freedom. 

THE  day  was  the  fourth  of  March,  in  the  year 
1901.  In  the  city  of  Manila,  in  the  Philippine 
Islands,  a  man,  in  the  uniform  of  an  American 
army  officer,  boarded  an  army  tug  headed  for 
Cavite,  up  the  coast.  The  man  was  small  in  stature, 
weighing  only  about  125  pounds,  with  fearlessness  and 
determination  written  on  his  face.  He  was  a  native 
of  the  State  of  Kansas,  and,  without  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  military  maneuvers,  he  had  enlisted  in  the 
Cuban  army  as  an  artillery  officer,  to  fight  against  their 
Spanish  oppressors.  He  served  the  Cubans  with  honor, 
but  tiring  of  their  haphazard  methods,  which  were 
apparent  even  to  this  amateur  in  warfare,  he  left  for 
New  York,  to  return  later  with  the  American  army  of 
invasion  as  an  officer. 

The  war  was  soon  carried  to  the  Philippines,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  earth,  and  thither  this  courageous  man 
hastened  when  the  strife  in  Cuba  diminished.  His  was 
a  nature  that  demanded  action. 

On  this  bright  day,  his  mind  full  of  daring  plans, 
he  sailed  for  the  barbarous  parts  beyond  Manila.    At 

—176— 


THE  LITTLE  KANSAN 


Cavite,  lie  transhipped  to  the  gunboat  Vicksburg,  and 
was  off  on  the  second  part  of  his  difficult  mission, 
accompanied  by  a  number  of  native  Macabebes,  Taga- 
los,  and  a  Spaniard.  The  native  Filipinos  were  queer- 
looking  little  men,  dressed  in  the  still  queerer  uniforms 
of  blue  jean,  or  white  and  blue,  or  all  white  uniforms 
of  the  insurgent  Filipinos.  Necessity  required  that 
this  band  of  invaders  should  conceal  their  true  identity, 
for  they  were  about  to  enter  the  jungles  of  the  country, 
where  the  enemy  carried  on  their  horrible  guerrilla 
warfare. 

Pilillo  Island  was  passed,  and  the  full  effect  of  the 
monsoon  was  felt  as  it  swept  over  the  ocean,  raising 
great  waves  about  the  little  gunboat.  At  about  ten 
o  'clock  that  night,  the  anchor  was  dropped  in  the  Bay 
of  Kasiguran,  about  five  hundred  yards  from  the  out- 
posts of  the  enemy.  Three  boats  were  lowered,  and, 
under  cover  of  the  intense  darkness,  landed  their  pas- 
sengers on  the  beach.  The  barefooted  party,  in  the 
midst  of  a  tropical  downpour,  threw  themselves  down 
on  the  sand,  to  snatch  a  few  hours  of  rest  before  begin- 
ning the  arduous  task  before  them.  Without  blankets 
they  lay,  drenched  by  the  falling  rain,  until  daylight. 

At  dawn  they  started  on  the  twenty  miles  to  Kasig- 
uran. It  was  a  remarkable  exhibition  of  bravery  on 
the  part  of  the  officer  and  his  men,  for  they  were  march- 
ing through  a  comparatively  unknown  region,  peopled 
by  hostile  and  treacherous  natives,  and  practically 
without  provisions  or  reserve  ammunition.  The 
Americans  had  assumed  the  character  of  prisoners  of 
war,  and  Hilario,  a  Macabebe,  supposedly  the  com- 
mander of  the  expedition,  led  the  little  band  of  brave 
men  over  boulders,  through  tangles  of  vines  and  trees, 
up  precipices,  on  to  Kasiguran. 

In  spite  of  their  caution  during  the  landing  from 
— 177-- 


HERO  TALES 


the  Vicksburg,  a  native  had  seen  them  and  had  sent 
word  on  ahead,  and  the  town  was  in  an  uproar  when  the 
struggling  body  of  soldiers  reached  it.  But  Hilario 
reassured  the  townspeople,  obtained  food  and  lodgings 
for  his  supposed  prisoners,  and  here  they  lay  for  two 
days,  resting  after  their  hard  journey. 

While  recuperating  for  their  march  of  ninety  miles 
into  the  island  to  their  objective  point,  a  letter  was  dis- 
patched to  the  wily  captain  of  the  guerrillas,  Aguinaldo, 
purporting  to  be  from  General  Lacuna.  It  commended 
the  party  to  the  favorable  notice  of  the  insurgent  leader. 
The  reply  to  the  letter  served  a  double  purpose;  food 
was  sent  to  the  supposed  prisoners,  and  their  captors 
were  instructed  to  treat  them  well.  It  was  apparent 
that  their  true  mission  was  not  suspected. 

When  about  five  miles  from  Palanan,  the  little  party 
were  met  by  a  guard  sent  by  Aguinaldo  to  relieve  the 
Filipinos  of  their  prisoners.  Marching  the  group  of 
Americans  and  friendly  Filipinos  through  the  town, 
they  drew  up  in  front  of  the  house  in  which  Aguinaldo 
was  seated,  surrounded  by  his  officers  and  bodyguard, 
drawn  up  to  receive  them  with  honor.  Hilario  went 
into  the  house  to  report  to  Aguinaldo,  leaving  the 
Americans  and  Macabebes  outside,  under  the  guard  of 
the  insurgent  soldiers.  The  moment  was  critical. 
While  Hilario  was  receiving  the  congratulations  of 
Aguinaldo,  there  came  a  shout  from  outside.  ''The 
time  of  the  Macabebes  has  come !     Fire  1 ' ' 

A  rattle  of  musketry  followed,  and  though  the  little 
band  of  invaders  was  greatly  outnumbered,  the  insur- 
gents took  to  their  heels  and  fled  to  the  woods  beyond. 
Inside  the  house,  Hilario,  at  the  signal,  had  sprung 
upon  the  guerrilla  leader  and  had  borne  him  to  the 
floor.  Calling  for  assistance  from  his  soldiers,  who  had 
deserted    their    commander,    Aguinaldo    desperately 

—178— 


THE  LITTLE  KANSAN 


struggled  to  escape.  Into  the  house  rushed  the  heroic 
real  commander  of  the  expedition,  General  Frederick 
Funston,  U.S.A.,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  rolling 
figures  on  the  floor. 

Soon,  their  united  efforts  had  the  insurgent  general 
under  control.  Lifting  him  to  his  feet,  they  took  him 
out  to  the  front  of  the  house  and  were  greeted  with 
cheer  upon  cheer  from  their  comrades  in  this  desperate 
expedition.  The  elusive,  treacherous  insurgent  leader, 
Aguinaldo,  who  had  harassed  the  American  soldiers 
unremittingly  and  had  extorted  ransom  from  the  peace- 
ful natives  of  the  island,  was  at  last  powerless  to  con- 
tinue his  atrocities. 

The  Americans  now  prepared  to  return  with  their 
prisoners  to  the  distant  coast,  their  course  lying 
through  the  forests,  over  boulders,  up  precipices,  and 
through  rivers,  perhaps  the  most  difficult  of  all  the 
paths  in  this  island  of  jungles. 

Day  after  day  this  intrepid  leader  led  his  band  of 
courageous  men,  over  obstacles  which  were  almost 
insurmountable.  Wearily  they  struggled  along  through 
the  thick  tangle  of  trees,  always  on  the  alert  for  foes 
who  could  come  upon  them  without  the  slightest 
warning. 

Without  mishap,  they  finally  reached  the  coast, 
where  the  gunboat  was  supposed  to  be  in  waiting  for 
them.  Its  officers  had  been  anxiously  surveying  the 
rough  and  inhospitable  shore  for  days,  sailing  up  and 
down  its  length,  keenly  watchful  for  signs  of  the  daring 
band.  Doubts  of  the  success  of  the  expedition  began  to 
assail  them,  but  they  still  continued  the  search  up  and 
down  the  forest-clad  shore.  On  the  afternoon  of  the 
24th  of  March,  as  the  boat  was  nearing  Palanan  Bay, 
a  great  cloud  of  smoke  burst  from  between  two  head- 
lands on  the  island,  ten  or  fifteen  miles  away.     The 

—179— 


HERO  TALES 


gunboat  steamed  up,  and  rushed  to  the  point  where  a 
flag  was  waving  the  brief  message,  "We  have  him." 

Back  went  the  signal—' '  Bully ! ' '  The  little  band  of 
heroes  on  shore  did  not  understand  the  word,  and  again 
exultantly  signaled,  "We  have  him."  Then  the  ship 
answered,  "Well  done." 

Boats  were  hurriedly  dropped  into  the  water  and 
rowed  to  the  shore.  General  Funston  and  his  successful 
men  and  their  captive  were  hurried  into  them  and 
rushed  back  to  the  gunboat.  As  they  approached  the 
ship,  cheer  after  cheer  greeted  them  in  recognition  of 
their  daring  achievement. 

The  gunboat  turned  and  steamed  for  far-distant 
Manila,  which  they  reached  on  the  evening  of  the  27tli 
of  March,  landing  their  prisoners  under  cover  of  dark- 
ness, and  locking  them  in  the  Governor's  palace  for 
safety.  The  next  afternoon  the  official  report  was  given 
out,  and  Funston  and  his  men  were  the  heroes  of  the 
hour.  Cannon  boomed  out  the  brigadier's  salute  of 
eleven  guns,  and  the  sailors  greeted  them  with  rousing 
cheers  that  thrilled  the  hearts  of  the  little  native  scouts. 
Aguinaldo's  reign  of  terror  was  over,  thanks  to  the 
heroic  General  Funston  and  his  daring  band  of  Maca- 
bebes  and  Tagalos,  native  soldiers,  who  were  fighting 
on  the  side  of  the  Americans  in  the  cause  of  freedom 
and  justice. 


"O  Land  of  Promise  to  all  earth's  oppressed, 
Lead  thou  Humanity's  snpiemest  quest, 

Aud  to  all  nations  cry.  'Lvt  there  he  ■peace!' 
Stay  Strife,  that  has  filled  the  earth  with  tears: 
Set  free  oiu-  brothers  from  their  hopeless  fears; 
And  let  our  Flag  throughout  all  future  years 

Proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  War  must  cease!" 


—180— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  IMMIGRANT  GIRL 
IN  THE  HARBOR  OF  A  NEW  WORLD 


This  is  the  tale  of  an  immigrant  girl 
whose  first  duty  in  the  new  America   brought  her  before 
the  eyes  of  the   Nation;  whose  unconscious  heroism  in  an  hour 
of  tragedy  carried  her  to  the  Halls  of  Congress,  where  she  was  hailed 
by  statesmen  and   honored     by  the  Government  of  the  United  States. 

IT  WAS  the  fifteenth  day  of  June,  in  1904.  In  the 
convalescent  ward  of  the  hospital  on  North 
Brother  Island,  in  New  York  harbor,  there  sat  a 
little,  sixteen-year-old  girl,  gazing  out  of  the 
window  onto  the  waters  of  East  River,  that  crowded, 
busy  stream  of  New  York,  through  which  ships  of  all 
nations  bring  their  cargoes  to  the  great  metropolis  of 
the  New  World.  As  far  as  her  eyes  could  reach,  there 
were  to  be  seen  tall,  tapering  spars  of  sailing  vessels, 
the  sooty  funnels  of  the  steamships  belching  volumes 
of  smoke,  the  great  bridge-spans  connecting  the 
Borough  of  Manhattan  with  its  sister  Borough  of 
Brooklyn,  loaded  with  an  endless  stream  of  moving 
vans  and  people,  all  busily  engaged  in  their  various 
vocations. 

This  was  all  intensely  interesting  to  the  little 
immigrant  girl  in  the  great  hospital,  for  she  had  but 
lately  arrived  in  America  from  Ireland.  She  had  come 
to  this  country  a  little  more  than  a  month  before  this 
bright  summer  morning  that  was  to  be  known  as  the 
"Darkest  in  New  York's  Harbor  History.'*    Shortly 

—181— 


HERO  TALES 


after  landing  in  the  New  World,  she  had  been  stricken 
with  scarlet  fever  and  taken  to  the  hospital,  where  she 
was  now  convalescing,  and,  though  still  weak,  was 
greatly  enjoying  the  sight  of  the  busy  craft  on  the  river. 

Suddenly,  there  was  the  clang  of  the  fire-alarm. 
Again  it  sounded.  Looking  about  to  see  the  cause,  she 
saw  a  great  excursion  steamship,  the  General  Slocum, 
headed  for  the  island.  The  boat  was  crowded  with  little 
children  and  their  mothers.  From  all  parts  of  the 
vessel  flames  were  pouring  and  hissing.  The  panic- 
stricken  passengers  were  rushing  to  and  fro.  Every- 
thing was  in  the  utmost  confusion.  Mothers  were 
rushing  about,  with  their  little  ones  clasped  closely  in 
their  arms,  seeking  a  means  of  escape  from  the  burning 
steamship.  The  crew  were  endeavoring  to  quiet  the 
passengers,  but  their  best  efforts  could  not  prevail 
against  the  frightened  women  and  children,  who  but  a 
short  hour  before  had  embarked  on  the  boat,  anticipat- 
ing a  day  of  relief  from  the  summer  heat  at  a  neigh- 
boring pleasure  resort. 

The  little  girl  in  the  hospital  saw  all  this  in  a  brief 
glance,  and  knowing  that  stricken  passengers  would 
need  the  help  of  everyone,  even  of  a  sixteen-year-old 
girl,  just  risen  from  a  sick-bed,  she  rushed  to  the  beach. 
The  first  one  she  saw  in  need  of  assistance  was  a  small 
boy  struggling  in  the  water,  half  drowned,  and  almost 
ready  to  give  up  the  battle  for  life.  Shouting  a  word  of 
cheer,  she  rushed  into  the  river,  seized  the  child  and 
turned  to  battle  her  way  back  to  the  shore.  Eeaching 
the  beach,  this  heroic  little  girl  bundled  her  prize  in 
blankets  that  some  thoughtful  person  had  provided, 
and  giving  the  precious  burden  to  a  bystander,  she 
turned  again  to  her  duty.  The  top  deck  of  the  steam- 
ship had  by  this  time  given  way  and  crashed  down  on 
the  ill-fated  passengers,  throwing  some  of  them  into 

—182— 


THE  IMMIGRANT  GIRL 


the  water,  while  others  were  pinned  down  to  be  con- 
sumed by  the  angry  flames. 

The  steamer  was  now  a  mass  of  roaring,  hissing 
flames.  The  nearby  waters  were  filled  with  shrieking 
and  drowning  men,  women,  and  children,  who  had 
chosen  a  death  by  water  rather  than  by  fire. 

Undaunted  by  the  fearful  sight,  our  little  girl- 
heroine  again  rushed  into  the  debris-strewn  water. 
Out  in  the  stream,  further  away  than  the  first  little 
victim,  another  little  boy  was  feebly  struggling  against 
the  terrible  odds.  His  strength  was  failing  fast  when 
she  reached  him.  Grasping  his  arm,  she  turned  to  the 
shore.  Impeded  by  her  clothing,  choked  by  the  dense 
smoke  of  the  burning  wreck,  she  fought  her  way  inch 
by  inch  back  to  safety ;  hands  reached  up  from  beneath 
the  water  in  their  last  death  struggles  grasping  for  a 
hold.  Drifting  timbers  from  the  wrecked  steamer 
buffeted  them,  but  shielding  the  little  boy  as  best  she 
could,  she  struggled  on  until  she  reached  the  shore. 
Leaving  the  boy  to  kindly  hands  there,  she  again  started 
on  her  heroic  work  of  rescue,  though  almost  exhausted. 
As  she  stepped  into  the  water,  the  little  lad  called  after 
her: 

"Please  save  my  little  brother.  He  is  out  there." 
Utterly  regardless  of  her  weakened  condition  and 
of  the  terrible  risk  that  she  was  taking^  she  rushed  into 
the  midst  of  the  wreck-strewn  river  to  another  gasp- 
ing boy,  and  brought  him  to  the  shore  through  the 
terrible  mass  of  wood  and  blackened  bodies.  Again 
and  again  this  heroic  little  Irish  immigrant  labored  to 
snatch  these  endangered  lives  from  the  hands  of  Death. 
The  burning  of  the  steamer  General  Shewn  was 
the  scene  of  innumberable  deeds  of  heroism  and  self- 
sacrifice.  Men  released  their  hold  on  floating  wreckage 
to  give  women  a  chance  for  their  lives.    Young  girls 

—183— 


HERO  TALES 


calmed  their  frenzy  of  fright  to  tear  from  their  own 
bodies  the  life-saving  belts  and  bind  them  about  babies 
whose  cries  touched  their  hearts  in  that  awful  hour — 
the  young,  unknown  heroines  sinking  in  sacrifice  to  the 
bottom. 

The  work  of  rescue  was  carried  on  for  hours,  until 
all  the  living  were  dragged  from  the  water,  or  their 
bodies  recovered.  The  General  Slocum  was  a  complete 
wreck,  beached  on  the  shore  of  North  Brother  Island. 

The  world  stood  aghast,  horror-stricken,  at  this 
fearful  accident  that  cost  nearly  one  thousand  lives, 
while  the  numerous  deeds  of  daring  and  heroism 
thrilled  the  hearts  of  the  nations.  Heroes  in  every 
walk  of  life  may  be  found  on  the  roll,  and  the  record  of 
the  darkest  day  in  the  history  of  New  York  harbor  is 
brightened  by  golden  letters  which  tell  of  high  courage 
and  self-sacrifice. 

But  none  were  nobler  than  those  of  the  sick,  little 
Irish  immigrant  girl.  The  little  child  heroine,  Mary 
McCann,  was  honored  by  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment. She  was  called  to  the  House  and  given  a  gold 
medal,  not  in  payment  for  her  services,  which  can 
never  be  repaid,  but  as  a  mark  of  appreciation  by  the 
American  people  of  her  high  courage  and  daring. 


"We  have  read  of  the  courage  of  heroes 
Who  follow  at  Duty's  call, 
Who  face  the  fight  with  power  and  might, 
Soldiers  and  sailors  and  all— 

"Then  take  this  word  to  our  -women, 
Sisters  and  mothers  and  wives, 
Talve  this  word  to  the  nobler  race. 
That  leads  the  nobler  lives." 


—184— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  PRIVATEER  THAT 
FOUGHT  FOUR  SHIPS  OF  WAR 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  privateer 
that  upheld  the  honor  of  the  American  flag  in  the  face 
of  defeat.    It  is  a  tale  of  ninety  men  who  tested  their  strength 
against  a  fighting  force  of  two  thousand  and  withstood  the  superior 
power  for  ten  hours,  leaving  their  ship  only  when    it  burst  into  flame. 

IT  WAS  a  bright  December  day,  in  1814.  The  little 
privateer,  General  Armstrong,  was  lying  in  the 
Portuguese  port  of  Fayal,  in  the  Azores.  The 
United  States  and  England  had  been  engaged  in 
the  warfare  for  two  years,  and,  though  the  English 
ships  were  larger  and  better  equipped  than  the  small 
navy  of  the  new  nation,  they  had  been  put  to  their 
mettle  to  keep  up  a  semblance  of  their  boasted  power. 
The  American  sloops-of-war  were  very  fleet,  and  could 
slide  up  to  the  larger  British  ships,  fire  a  broadside, 
and  turn  and  run,  before  the  cumbersome  English 
vessels  could  maneuver  into  position  to  annihilate,  with 
their  batteries  of  guns,  the  daring  little  vessels. 

On  this  December  day,  four  English  ships,  a  ship-of- 
line,  a  frigate,  and  two  brigs,  were  headed  for  this  port 
of  shelter,  where  the  little  American  sloop  was  anch- 
ored. Suddenly,  the  Americans  sighted  the  fleet  of 
formidable  ships  off  the  harbor  entrance,  and,  though 
the  port  was  neutral,  the  brave  commander  knew  that 
the  Portuguese  government  was  friendly  to  England, 
and  that  the  English  would  not  hesitate  to  violate  the 

—185— 


HERO  TALES 


laws  of  neutrality,  if,  by  so  doing,  they  could  annihilate 
this  little  privateer,  which  had  destroyed  many  of  their 
merchantmen. 

The  anxiety  on  the  Armstrong  was  great.  The  odds 
were  fearful — this  little  boat  pitted  against  four  of  the 
best  of  the  English  navy,  with  trained  fighters  and 
overpowering  cannon. 

The  privateer  was  anchored  close  to  the  shore,  inside 
of  the  harbor.  The  courageous  captain  gave  orders  to 
clear  the  decks  for  action,  and  threw  out  the  boarding- 
nettings  to  repel  boarders.  The  guns  were  loaded  and 
thrust  forward,  ready  to  hurl  their  shot  into  the 
enemy's  ships  when  they  should  attack. 

The  English  commander  soon  observed  the  little 
American  boat,  nestled  close  to  the  shore  inside  the 
harbor,  and  with  glee  started  on  the  offensive.  The 
shoals  at  the  entrance  prevented  taking  the  heavy  ship- 
of-line  and  the  frigate  in,  and  the  calm  and  currents 
hindered  the  movements  of  the  lighter  sloops-of-war. 
Boats,  filled  with  sailors  armed  to  the  teeth,  were 
dropped  from  the  sides  of  the  English  vessels,  and  they 
prepared  to  overwhelm  the  American  ship  by  boarding 
it  with  a  superior  number  of  fighting  men — a  favorite 
method  of  the  English  in  those  days  in  engaging  the 
ships  of  France  and  Spain.  In  this  case,  they  did  not 
reckon  on  their  opponents. 

An  American  sailor  stood  behind  each  gun  on  the 
Armstrong,  ready  for  the  enemy.  The  English  boats 
were  rapidly  approaching.  Now  they  were  within 
range.  A  spurt  of  flame  flashed  out  from  the  side  of 
the  Armstrong  and  a  shot  went  hurtling  over  the  bay, 
crashing  into  the  leading  boat.  Again  a  cannon  roared 
out  its  defiance,  and  the  splinters  flew  from  another  of 
the  attacking  fleet. 

This  was  enough  for  the  English  officers,  and  they 
^186— 


THE  PRIVATEER 


sounded  a  recall.  Back  to  the  ships  hurried  the  boats, 
anxious  to  be  out  of  reach  of  the  accurate  fire  of  the 
General  Armstrong. 

The  English  captains  were  enraged  at  the  repulse 
and  decided  to  attack  the  brave  defenders  under  cover 
of  night. 

The  day  wore  on  with  no  further  action.  Night  crept 
over  the  water,  and  the  ships  were  enshrouded  in  dark- 
ness. A  dozen  boats,  with  muffled  oars,  filled  to  the 
gunwales  with  determined  men,  bent  on  the  destruction 
of  the  little  privateer,  stole  across  the  water.  There 
was  not  a  sound  to  warn  the  Americans  that  their  foes 
were  upon  them. 

Suddenly,  a  streak  of  flame  from  the  motionless 
Armstrong  cut  the  darkness  in  twain.  Again  the  guns 
belched  forth.  In  the  light  of  the  discharging  cannon 
could  be  seen  the  grim  figures  of  the  American  gunners, 
calm  and  collected  in  the  face  of  the  great  odds,  sight- 
ing and  firing  their  guns  at  the  oncoming  boats.  The 
boats  steadily  came  on,  in  the  face  of  the  rain  of  fire, 
for  they  were  manned  by  seamen  accustomed  to  battle, 
and  danger  had  no  terrors  for  them. 

Hacking  and  slashing  at  the  boarding-nets,  striving 
to  cut  their  way  through,  and,  unheeding  the  terrible 
rain  of  shot,  the  British  tars  worked,  while  the  Ameri- 
cans, with  pike  and  cutlass,  fought  in  the  protection  of 
their  ship.  Now  the  enemy  were  through  the  defenses, 
and  clambering  over  the  sides. 

A  terrible  struggle  ensued.  The  night  was  rent  by 
the  cries  of  the  combatants,  the  light  of  the  discharging 
muskets  and  cannon,  and  the  heavy  trampling  of  the 
fighting  men,  as  they  surged  back  and  forth,  in  all  the 
tumult  of  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  The  battle  waged 
furiously.  At  last,  the  desperate  Americans,  under 
the  command  of  the  gallant  Captain  Eeid,  rallied,  and, 

—187— 


HERO  TALES 


with  fierce  cries,  drove  back  the  English  across  the  deck 
and  into  the  sea. 

This  ended  the  struggle.  The  crippled  English,  in 
their  remaining  boats,  slowly  drew  off  to  their  ships, 
utterly  defeated  by  the  little  crew  of  the  American  ship, 
ninety  in  all.  The  English  lost  half  of  their  attacking 
force,  while  the  Americans  lost  but  nine.  Hoarse  cries 
of  victory  rang  through  the  night,  and  the  British  com- 
modore, maddened  with  anger  and  humiliation,  deter- 
mined to  utterly  destroy  the  gallant  privateer. 

The  next  day,  an  English  sloop-of-war  was  warped 
into  position  to  blow  the  American  out  of  the  water; 
but,  before  she  could  bring  her  guns  to  bear,  shots  from 
the  American  ship  struck  her  repeatedly  and  the  sloop 
had  to  draw  out  of  range,  crippled.  Filled  with  rage, 
the  English  threw  all  caution  to  the  winds  and  again 
returned  to  the  attack.  This  time  they  drew  nearer  and 
opened  up  fire  with  their  heavier  guns.  The  gallant 
little  General  Armstrong  was  at  their  mercy.  Soon  the 
privateer  was  in  flames,  and  the  brave  Captain  Samuel 
Reid  and  his  valiant  sailors  were  forced  to  abandon 
the  ship  that  had  so  courageously  resisted  the  attack  of 
four  of  the  flower  of  the  British  navy.  They  escaped 
inland,  and,  though  the  English  succeeded  in  destroy- 
ing their  ship,  it  had  cost  them  dearly,  for  they  lost 
more  than  twice  as  many  men  as  the  whole  American 
crew. 


'But  the  name  of  Reid  and  tlie  fame  of  Reid 

And  tlie  flag  of  his  ship  and  crew 
Are  brighter  far  than  sea  or  star, 

Or  ttie  heaven's  red,  white,  and  blue: 
So  lift  your  voices  once  again 

For  the  land  we  love  so  dear. 
For  the  fighting  Captain  and  the  men 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer." 

—188— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  RAIDERS 
WHO  RODE  THROUGH  LINES  OF  DEATH 


This  is  the  tale  of  twenty-nine  men 
who  outwitted  a  sleeping  army  and  carried  away  their  cap- 
tives.   It  is  a  tale  of    men   who  are  willing    to    sacrifice    their 
lives  in  their  devotion  to  a  cause  which  is  dearer  to  them  than 
life,  who  overcome  almost  impossible  barriers  for  the  flag  that  they  love. 

IT  WAS  during  the  early  months  of  1863.     The 
Union  troops,  stationed  in  front  of  Washington, 
were  being  harassed  by  the  Confederates  nnder 
Colonel  John  H.  Mosby.     The  depredations  were 
carried  on  with  great  daring  by  the  gallant  commander 
of  the  Confederates,  and  the  Union  soldiers,  try  as  they 
might,  could  not  catch  him. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  seventh  of  March,  1863, 
Colonel  Mosby,  with  twenty-nine  mounted  men,  left 
Aldie  to  make  a  raid  on  the  Union  headquarters  at 
Fairfax  Court  House.  Jogging  along  the  roads,  on 
their  fleet  horses,  this  band  of  fearless  men  were  bent 
on  one  of  the  most  dangerous  feats  imaginable. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  of  the  late  winter  afternoon, 
they  were  getting  within  range  of  the  cavalry  pickets.. 
It  had  now  grown  pitch-dark,  and  they  were  within  the 
lines  of  the  Union  army,  an  extremely  critical  position, 
which  only  served  to  increase  their  alertness.  Gallop- 
ing along*^  the  road  leading  to  the  headquarters,  their 
objective  point,  they  were  halted  by  command  from  out 
of  the  darkness. 

—189— 


HERO  TALES 


"Who  comes  there  I" 

Hearts  stopped  beating.  Were  they  discovered  to 
the  enemy? 

"The  Fifth  New  York  Cavalry,"  was  their  answer, 
and  were  allowed  to  pass  on.  The  friendly  night  had 
saved  them.  Eiding  slowly  on,  they  were  halted  again 
and  again  by  the  Union  pickets,  who  were  satisfied  with 
the  reply,  ' 'The  Fifth  New  York  Cavalry. ' '  It  was  too 
dark  for  the  sentinels  to  see  that  the  uniforms  the 
riders  wore  were  not  those  of  the  Union  army.  They 
had  no  idea  that  any  Confederates  would  be  so  fool- 
hardy as  to  ride  into  their  lines.  This  was  just  what 
Mosby  had  depended  on. 

They  had  arrived  in  front  of  headquarters  without 
their  true  identity  being  discovered.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, and'their  work  had  to  be  done  quickly.  Detailing 
men  to  go  after  prisoners  and  horses,  the  doughty 
leader,  with  a  few  men,  set  out  after  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Johnstone.  Knocking  on  the  door,  it  was  opened  by 
Johnstone's  wife  who  recognized  the  uniforms. 
Believing  her  husband  to  be  in  danger,  she  fought  back 
the  men  until  her  husband  had  time  to  escape  through 
the  back  door,  clad  in  his  night  clothes. 

Disappointed  at  the  escape  of  the  officer,  the  men 
retired  to  the  rendezvous,  where  they  met  their  com- 
rades who  had  been  more  successful,  bringing  in  a 
number  of  prisoners  and  fine  horses.  The  prisoners 
were  dumbfounded  at  the  act  of  daring.  Learning  that 
General  Stoughton  was  at  his  home  in  the  village,  this 
intrepid  officer  determined  to  capture  him,  and  sallied 
forth.  Arriving  at  the  house,  an  upper  window  was 
thrown  up,  in  answer  to  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  called  someone  from  the  open 
window. 

"We  have   a   dispatch  for   General   Stoughton." 
—190— 


THE  RAIDERS 


The  door  was  opened  and  the  men  rushed  upstairs 
to  the  side  of  the  bed  in  which  the  General  had  been 
sleeping. 

''You  are  my  prisoner,"  cried  Mosby. 

''What?"  exclaimed  the  incredulous  General. 

"I  am  Mosby.  Stuart's  Cavalry  holds  this  place, 
and  General  Jackson  is  in  possession  of  Centerville." 

The  deceit  was  necessary.  Had  the  General  known 
there  were  but  twenty-nine  men  in  Mosby 's  command, 
there  would  have  been  different  results.  The  Confed- 
erates were  in  great  danger,  for  in  addition  to  several 
thousand  Union  troops  quartered  in  the  village,  there 
was  a  considerable  number  at  Centerville,  a  short  dis- 
stance  off.  There  was  need  for  the  greatest  caution 
and  haste  by  the  valiant  cavalrymen.  Surrounding  the 
prisoners,  who  outnumbered  them  four  to  one,  the 
victorious  little  band  started  on  their  return  ito  their 
lines  several  miles  distant.  Between  them  and  safety 
lay  thousands  of  Union  soldiers,  always  watchful  and 
ready  to  fire  at  the  slightest  suspicion. 

In  the  darkness,  the  prisoners  could  not  distinguish 
the  captors  from  the  captives,  and  believed  that  they 
had  been  captured  by  a  superior  force.  During  the 
ride,  they  made  several  attempts  to  escape,  only  to  be 
overtaken  and  brought  back  to  the  rapidly  moving 
cavalcade. 

Ahead  of  them  lay  Centerville,  with  its  sleeping 
thousands  of  Union  soldiers.  Making  a  detour  to  the 
left,  they  soon  left  that  danger  far  behind.  But  their 
difficulties  were  not  over.  They  had  to  pass  the  cannon 
in  the  forts.  The  break  of  day  had  come,  and  they 
could  be  easily  seen  by  the  men  there,  who  believed 
them  to  be  a  detachment  of  Union  cavalry  out  on  an 
early  morning  expedition.  The  daring  little  band 
passed  so  close  to  the  forts  that  they  could  hear  the 

—191— 


HERO  TALES 


sentinels  on  the  walls  exchanging  challenges.  Passing 
Tinder  the  very  noses  of  the  watch-dogs  of  the  Union, 
they  swept  on  to  the  distant  goal. 

They  reached  the  Cub  Eun  River,  to  find  that  it  was 
badly  swollen  and  too  deep  to  ford.  They  were  still 
within  range  of  the  guns  in  the  Union  forts.  They 
could  not  hesitate,  for  the  danger  was  great ;  the  day- 
light was  growing  brighter. 

Driving  their  prisoners  before  them,  they  plunged 
into  the  raging  water  and  swam  their  horses  across  to 
the  other  side,  inside  of  the  Confederate  lines ! 

The  brave  band  of  cavalry  raced  on  to  Culpepper 
Court  House,  gay  and  joyous,  in  the  flush  of  their 
extraordinary  achievement.  Colonel  Mosby  rode  up 
to  his  commanding  officer,  Colonel  Stuart,  and  turned 
over  the  captured  Union  officers  and  men. 

Colonel  Stuart  was  so  impressed  by  the  courage 
and  daring  of  the  brave  Mosby,  that  he  published  a 
general  order,  in  which  he  characterized  the  act  as  ' '  a 
feat  unparalleled  in  the  war." 


"The  guns  are  hushed.     On  every  field  once  flowing 
With  war's  red  blood,  May's  breath  of  peace  is  shed, 
And,  spring's  young  grass  and  gracious  flowers  are  growing 
Above  the  dead. 

"Ye  gray  old  men  whom  we  this  day  are  greeting, 
Honor  to  you,  honor  and  love  and  trust! 
Brave  to  the  brave.    Your  soldier  hands  are  meeting 
Across  their  dust. 

"But  braver  ye  who,  when  the  war  was  ended, 
And  bugle's  call  and  wave  of  flag  were  done. 
Could  come  back  home,  so  long  left  undefended. 
Your  cause  uuwon. 

"All  this  you  did,  your  courage  strong  upon  you. 
And  out  of  ashes,  wrecli,  a  new  land  rose, 
Through  years  of  war  no  braver  battle  won  you, 
'Gainst  fiercer  foes." 

—192— 


GUNNISON   CANYON,  WHERE  THE    ENGINEERS   BEGAN   THEIR    PERILOUS  JOURNEY 


LIFE-RAFT  IN   GUNNISON   TUNNEL  WHERE    ENGINEERS  WERE   IMPRISONED 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  COPPERSMITH  WHO 
AROUSED  HIS  PEOPLE 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  coppersmith 
whose  midnight  ride  in  the  cause  of  liberty  has 
left  his  name  on  the  lips  of  the  children  of  the  Nation.    It  is 
a  tale  that  is  treasured  in  the  hearts  of  each  generation,  and  will 
be  told  at  the  firesides  of  American  homes  as  long  as  the  Nation  lives. 

IT  WAS  in  the  month  of  April,  in  the  year  1775.  The 
town  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  was  occupied  by 
the  English  soldiers;  and  in  the  harbor  lay  the 
warships  of  His  Majesty,  King  George,  with  their 
frowning  guns  directed  upon  the  town.  At  the  street 
corners,  cannon  were  planted  and  sentries  posted. 
Citizens  were  challenged,  as  they  passed  along  the 
streets.  Numerous  clashes  between  the  soldiery  and  cit- 
izens occurred,  and  the  feeling  of  hostility  was  intense. 
In  the  early  evening  of  the  eighteenth  of  April,  a 
little  boy  was  seen  to  leave  the  Green  Dragon  Inn,  and 
hurry  along  the  streets  to  a  quaint-looking,  little  house. 
He  delivered  a  message  and  turned  away.  About  ten 
o'clock  that  night,  a  man,  wrapped  in  his  great-coat, 
peered  cautiously  out  at  the  door,  and,  finding  the  street 
clear,  hurried  away  in  the  shadows  of  the  houses,  pass- 
ing groups  of  red-coated  soldiers  and  their  officers,  and 
answering  challenges,  but  never  being  stopped. 

Now  he  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Charles  Eiver.  In 
the  stream  was  a  small  row-boat,  manned  by  two 
thickly-clad  figures  with  muffled  faces. 

—193— 


HERO  TALES 


''All  right,"  said  the  stranger,  and  they  pushed  off 
into  the  middle  of  the  stream.  AVith  steady  strokes  they 
rowed  across.  A  dim  shape  loomed  up  in  front  of  them. 
It  was  the  great  Somerset,  a  British  man-of-war.  Close 
under  its  shadows  the  boat  passed,  and  out  into  the  light 
beyond.  At  last,  the  opposite  shore  was  reached,  and 
the  stranger  leaped  from  the  boat. 

He  rushed  up  the  street  leading  from  the  river,  and 
rounded  a  corner.  Coming  toward  him  was  a  small 
group  of  men.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  started 
on  again  and  greeted  the  oncoming  men.  They  drew 
close  together  and  parleyed  in  low  tones.  One  of  the 
men  pointed  out  over  the  water  in  the  direction  whence 
the  stranger  had  come,  and  there,  over  the  town  of 
Boston,  lights  were  seen  in  the  steeple  of  a  church. 
Every  man  in  the  group  knew  these  lights  to  be  signals. 

Presently,  the  stranger  hurried  on,  and  coming  to  a 
house  which  was  shrouded  in  darkness,  he  quickly 
roused  its  inhabitants.  Around  to  the  rear  he  hurried, 
soon  to  reappear,  mounted  on  a  horse.  Out  along  the 
road  the  horse  galloped,  carrying  the  stranger,  whose 
face  was  drawn  with  tense  excitement.  Soon  they  were 
in  the  open  country,  dashing  along  the  shady  roads 
under  the  moonlight. 

The  pounding  hoofs  wakened  the  people  as  the  horse 
approached.  Windows  were  thrown  up.  Heads  peered 
out  at  the  racing  horseman.  Cries  were  exchanged  and 
the  horseman  was  off  to  the  next  house,  spreading  the 
warning.  Mile  after  mile  the  brave  man  rode,  arousing 
the  countryside. 

Midnight  passed,  but  still  he  kept  up  his  gruelling 
pace,  though  his  horse  was  streaked  with  foam.  The 
houses  which  he  had  passed  were  quickly  lighted  up  and 
through  the  windows  figures  of  men  might  have  been 
seen  running  about,  donning  their  clothes,  and  seizing 


THE  COPPERSMITH 


their  muskets.  Then  they,  too,  mounted  and  hurried  on 
after  the  flying  figure  far  in  front.  Into  the  town  of 
Concord  at  lengtli  dashed  the  foam-flecked  horse  and  its 
rider.  Up  the  main  street  he  flew,  soon  to  be  surrounded 
by  eager  men,  listening  to  the  news. 

''The  British  are  coming,"  were  the  words  that  sent 
them  off  in  every  direction,  to  prepare  to  receive  King 
George's  red-coated  soldiers  in  a  manner  that  showed 
the  spirit  of  the  patriots.  The  weary  but  happy  mes- 
senger had  accomplished  his  heroic  task,  which  was  to 
ring  down  through  history  forever. 

Along  the  road  from  Charlestown  to  Lexington  and 
Concord,  farmer-boys,  with  muskets  over  their  shoul- 
ders, marched  beside  their  fathers  and  grandfathers, 
aroused  by  the  midnight  ride  of  the  coppersmith  from 
Boston. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  ride  of  Paul  Eevere,  soldier 
and  patriot;  the  tale  that  has  been  on  the  lips  of  men 
ever  since  that  memorable  day,  the  eighteenth  of  April, 
in  the  year  1775,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  American 
Republic — the  name  that  will  be  ever  on  the  lips  of  its 
children  as  long  as  the  Eepublic  stands. 


"You  know  the  rest.      In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  flreil  and  fled,— 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

"For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  tlie  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last. 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere." 

--195— 


THE  TALE  OF   THE   TELEPHONE  GIRL 
WHO  WARNED  THE  VALLEY 


Thfs  Is  the  tale  of  faithfulness 
to  duty  in  every  day's  work,  of  unselfish  fidelity  that 
takes  no  heed  of  self  but  thinks  only  of  others  who  are  in 
peril.    It  is  a  tale  of  a  modern  science  through  which  two  hundred 
people  werewamed  of  an  onrushing  flood  and  urged  to  flee  for  their  lives. 

IT.  WAS  the  twenty-eiglith  of  August,  1908.  In  the 
central  office  of  the  telephone  company  at  Folsam, 
in  New  Mexico,  the  night  operator,  a  young 
widow,  sat  alone.  There  was  little  work  for  the 
operator  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  and  she  had  hut  a 
few  calls  to  answer.  The  two  hundred  subscribers  on 
the  Folsam  line  retired  early,  and  it  was  more  as  an 
emergency  measure  than  anything  else  that  the  little 
woman  was  stationed  at  the  lonely  little  frame  central 
station  on  the  banks  of  the  Colorado  Eiver.  There  were 
those  who  marveled  at  her  courage  in  staying  alone, 
night  after  night,  in  the  secluded  little  station,  but  she 
merely  smiled  when  questioned,  and  replied  that  when  a 
crisis  should  arrive  she  would  be  ready  to  meet  it.  She 
was  a  general  favorite  with  the  subscribers.  It  was  her 
pride  that  she  knew  every  one  of  them  by  name ;  knew 
where  they  lived,  and  knew  much  of  their  history. 

Suddenly,  the  buzzer  on  her  switchboard  told  her 
that  a  subscriber,  nearly  twenty  miles  up  the  river,  was 
calling  her.  She  connected  the  wire  and  answered  with 
her  customary  cheery  ''Hello." 

—196— 


THE  TELEPHONE  GIRL 


' '  Mrs.  Eooke, ' '  called  an  excited  voice.  ' '  There  has 
been  a  big  cloudburst  up  the  canyon.  The  river  is 
rising  rapidly.  At  the  rate  the  flood  is  coming,  it  will 
reach  you  in  about  half  an  hour.  It  will  sweep  away 
your  office.  You  have  plenty  of  time  now  to  make  your 
escape.    Get  out  while  you  can.    Goodbye." 

That  was  the  emergency  for  her  to  face.  There  was 
time  for  her  to  get  out — plenty  of  time.  But  there  on 
the  desk  before  her  lay  the  list  of  subscribers,  over  two 
hundred  of  them.  Most  of  them  lived  along  the  valley 
and  were  now  peacefully  sleeping,  unconscious  of  the 
danger  that  was  sweeping  toward  them.  Unless  she 
could  warn  them  in  time  they  would  be  caught  in  their 
homes ;  caught  and  drowned  in  the  death  trap.  It  was 
not  a  part  of  her  duty  to  warn  them — not  a  part  of  her 
duty  to  the  telephone  company,  nor  to  the  subscribers, 
but 

Ten  miles  up  the  river  a  feeble,  old  couple  were 
roused  from  their  sleep  by  the  continuous  ringing  of 
the  'phone.     Muttering  angrily,  the  old  man  spoke. 

''Hello,"  he  answered,  none  too  pleasantly.  Then 
came  the  message : 

"Mr. ,  this  is  Mrs.  Eooke.    There  has  been  a 

cloudburst  up  the  river.  A  flood  is  sweeping  down  the 
canyon.  It  will  carry  away  your  house  in  less  than 
fifteen  minutes.  Run  for  your  lives.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"We  will  be  out,"  answered  the  old  man.  Before 
he  could  add  his  thanks  the  central  had  rung  off. 

A  little  further  down  the  canyon  the  anxious 
watchers  by  the  bed  of  a  sick,  young  girl  were  called  to 
the  'phone.  To  them  came  the  same  message,  and 
before  the  house  was  torn  from  its  foundations,  the 
invalid  had  been  safely  carried  to  a  spot  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  raging  wall  of  water. 

—197— 


HERO  TALES 


In  the  central  office  the  little  operator  was  working 
madly.  With  her  list  before  her,  she  telephoned  down 
the  canyon  ahead  of  the  coming  flood.  It  was  slow  work 
to  arouse  the  subscribers  just  well  settled  into  the  first 
deep  sleep  of  the  night.  She  was  planning  to  save  just 
as  many  as  she  possibly  could.  The  sick,  the  aged,  and 
all  who  needed  the  most  time  were  warned  first;  the 
others,  who  were  better  able  to  care  for  themselves,  last. 
Always  judging  as  closely  as  she  could,  she  kept  so  far 
ahead  of  the  flood  that  her  warnings  were  not  in  vain. 

Minute  followed  minute,  and  the  operator  still 
worked  on.  Her  warning  flashed  to  those  below  her 
office  now.  Six  miles  below  the  central  office  a  boy 
answered  the  frantic  ringing  of  the  bell.  Above  the 
ringing,  whirring,  he  caught  the  words : 

*'A  flood  is   coming!     Fly  for **     A  sudden 

silence  told  that  the  wires  had  been  carried  down. 

After  the  flood  subsided  the  next  day  they  found 
her.  Twelve  miles  below  the  central  office,  in  a  clump 
of  bushes,  her  body  lay.  The  headpiece,  which  tele- 
phone operators  wear,  was  still  fastened  over  her  ear. 
They  buried  her  with  it  still  crowning  her  golden  hair — 
a  badge  that  signified,  *' Faithful,  even  unto  death." 


"Hail!  to  the  honor  of  woman. 
Sisters  and  mothers  and  -wives, 
Hail!   to  the  name  of  the  nobler  race 
That  leads  the  nobler  lives. 

"Where  is  thei'e  faith  like  a  woman's— 
Purer  than  beaten  gold— 
Or  courage  to  enter  the  shadow  of  death. 
Are  there  men  with  hearts  so  bold? 

"Men,  when  you  enter  the  battle, 
Free,  where  the  sun  shines  clear. 
Pray  God  for  a  woman's  courage 
To  suffer  and  conquer  fear." 

—198— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  ORPHAN  BOY  WHO 
ROSE  TO  LEAD  HIS  COUNTRYMEN 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  homeless  lad 
who  struggled  through  poverty  to  fame,  who  did  not 
forget  the  land  of  his  birth  when  it  was  in  danger  and  gave  his 
life  to  its  defense.      It  is  a  tale  of  a  youth  who  resolved  early'in  life 
that  "you  may  be  whatever  you  resolve  to  be"  by  trusting  God  and  yourself. 

IT  WAS  the  first  day  of  May,  in  1863.  The  armies 
of  the  South  and  North  were  face  to  face  at  Chan- 
cello  rsville,  in  old  Virginia ;  the  Confederates  with 
sixty  thousand  men  under  the  great  General  Lee, 
and  the  Union  army,  in  command  of  General  Hooker, 
with  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand.  For  days  the 
two  armies  had  been  engaged  in  a  terrific  struggle ;  and 
now  the  critical  moment  was  at  hand  when  one  side  or 
the  other  must  give  way.  The  Union  general,  in  the 
presence  of  the  famous  Southern  leader,  hesitated, 
instead  of  taking  advantage  of  his  opportunity,  and  his 
opponent  seized  the  chance  to  enact  one  of  the  most 
daring  maneuvers  of  the  war. 

In  the  Confederate  camp  the  commanding  officers 
were  holding  a  council  of  war.  The  discussion  had 
reached  a  climax,  when  General  Lee  dismissed  his 
officers  and  retired.  Late  in  the  night,  while  both 
armies  were  wrapped  in  sleep,  a  spark  of  light  might 
have  been  seen  under  the  trees.  It  was  a  little  fire  of 
twigs,  and  bending  over  it  were  two  officers  seated  on 
cracker-boxes  in  close  intimacy  and  evident  friendship. 

—199— 


HERO  TALES 


They  were  General  Lee  and  his  great  lieutenant,  upon 
whom  he  was  depending ;  the  man  who,  with  his  brigade, 
had  by  their  immovable  fortitude  withstood  the  on- 
slaught of  the  Union  army,  and  driven  them  from  the 
field  of  Bull  Eun  in  complete  rout.  For  this  act  he  was 
lovingly  called  by  his  men  ''Stonewall"  Jackson. 

When  these  two  brilliant  officers  had  arisen  from 
their  humble  seats  the  plan  of  battle  for  the  next  day 
had  been  decided  upon,  one  of  the  most  glorious  days 
for  the  Confederates  in  the  whole  war.  Soon,  orders 
were  passed  along  to  ' '  fall  in, ' '  and  the  regiments  were 
on  the  road.  At  one  side  of  the  marching  columns  of 
gray-clad  soldiers,  a  stern,  commanding  figure  sat  on 
his  great  charger,  reviewing  the  troops  of  veterans  as 
they  swung  past.  With  his  cap  pulled  low  over  his  eyes, 
and  looking  up  from  under  the  visor  with  compressed 
lips,  indicating  the  stern  resolve  within,  he  directed  his 
men.  Soon  they  swung  off  into  the  woods  at  the  side, 
and  silently  marched  over  and  through  the  tangle  of 
low  brush.  Jackson  rode  by  his  men  to  gain  the  lead, 
and  was  greeted  by  many  a  gay-hearted  fellow  with 
good-natured  chaff,  such  as,  "Say,  here's  one  of  Old 
Jack's  little  fellows.  Let  him  by,  boys,"  delivered  in 
the  most  patronizing  tones;  "Better  hurry  up,  or  you 
will  catch  it  for  being  behind;"  "Don't  begin  to  fuss 
until  we  get  there,"  and  so  on  until  he  gained  his  posi- 
tion in  the  advance. 

For  ten  miles,  through  the  dense  woods,  the  packed 
column  of  infantry  passed  along.  Now  they  were 
approaching  the  enemy  and  extreme  caution  was  nec- 
essary. Beaching  the  Orange  Plank  road,  Jackson 
halted  his  section  of  the  army  and  rode  forward  himself 
to  reconnoiter  the  position  of  the  Union  troops.  Soon 
he  was  back,  and  his  men,  now  sober  and  expectant  for 
the  fray,  awaited  his  commands.    But  they  were  not  to 

—200— 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY 


go  into  battle  just  yet.  Ordering  his  command  to  follow, 
lie  plunged  into  the  woods  toward  Chancellorsville,  the 
silent,  ghostlike  column  of  men  at  his  heels. 

For  a  mile  they  continued  their  silent  march.  Then 
they  halted.  They  had  achieved  a  brilliant  strategy. 
Without  discovery,  ''Stonewall"  Jackson  had  suc- 
ceeded in  flanlving  the  Union  army  of  the  Potomac,  of 
one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  men,  and  lay  in  a 
favorable  position  for  attacking  the  superior  force  of 
Union  soldiers.  Before  them,  through  the  trees,  could 
be  seen  the  Eleventh  Corps,  under  General  Howard. 
The  men,  without  the  least  idea  of  the  danger  so  near 
them,  were  lounging  about  without  muskets,  some 
seated  on  the  ground  playing  cards,  and  others  busy 
about  the  preparation  of  supper.  The  Confederates  in 
the  woods  were  drawn  up  in  line,  awaiting  the  com- 
mand to  advance. 

Upon  his  stout-built,  famous  ' '  Old  Sorrel, '  ^  sat  the 
commanding  figure  of  Jackson,  his  cap  still  pulled  low 
and  his  watch  in  his  hand.  To  his  right  was  General 
Eodes,  impatient  for  the  fray.    The  time  had  arrived. 

''Are  you  ready.  General  Eodes T'  called  Jackson. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Eodes. 

"Forward,  then!"  ordered  Jackson. 

A  nod  from  Eodes  was  enough  for  the  veteran 
soldiers,  and  the  assault  was  on.  With  fierce  cries 
resounding  through  the  woods,  the  skirmishers  sprang 
eagerly  to  their  task,  followed  by  the  line  of  battle.  For 
a  moment  all  the  troops  seemed  buried  in  the  woods. 
Then  from  the  imderbrush  there  rushed  a  great  mass 
of  fear-inspiring  men  bent  on  the  destruction  of  the 
army  in  the  open  field  in  front.  Their  cries  could  be 
heard  at  Hooker's  headquarters  at  Chancellorsville, 
miles  away.  Never  was  an  assault  delivered  with 
greater  enthusiasm.     The  Confederate  soldiers  were 


^201— 


HERO  TALES 


in  fine  condition,  and  the  presence  of  "Stonewall" 
guaranteed  that  there  could  be  no  mistake  and  no 
failure.  The  din  was  terrific.  Volley  after  volley  "of 
musketry,  the  roaring  of  artillery,  and  the  thundering 
rush  of  thousands  of  men  echoed  through  the  forest  as 
Jackson  and  his  forces  routed  the  Union  soldiers  from 
their  position. 

Success  was  theirs  from  the  first.  The  Union  sol- 
diers had  put  up  a  feeble  defense,  but  were  driven  back 
by  the  overwhelming  surprise  of  the  attack.  The  battle 
roar  kept  up  for  the  rest  of  the  day  as  the  attack 
became  general  along  the  line,  until  darkness  kindly 
drew  its  mantle  over  the  scene  of  carnage,  and  the  two 
armies,  by  mutual  consent,  ceased  firing  and  prepared 
to  rest  for  the  battle  on  the  morrow. 

In  the  dusk,  a  group  of  officers  could  be  seen  moving 
about  the  battlefield,  mounted  on  horses,  studying  the 
situation,  and  planning  the  next  engagement.  General 
Jackson  was  in  the  lead,  riding  along  the  plank  road. 
In  the  woods  beside  the  road  were  troops  of  his  own 
men,  on  the  watch  for  a  night  attack  by  the  enemy.  At 
the  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  planks  the  alert 
men  seized  their  guns  and  were  ready.  Suddenly, 
around  the  bend  came  a  man  astride  a  sorrel  horse, 
accompanied  by  other  men,  mounted. 

"Ah!  a  skirmishing  party,"  thought  the  soldiers 
concealed  in  the  woods. 

The  horse  was  now  opposite  them.  A  volley  rang 
out,  awakening  the  echoes  in  the  trees,  and  two  of  the 
party  fell  from  their  horses.  The  leading  horse  turned 
from  the  fire,  and  dashed  for  the  protecting  forest  to 
the  right,  only  to  be  met  with  another  volley  of  shot, 
full  face. 

The  figure  upon  the  steed  swayed  and  trembled, 
slipping  inch  bv  inch,  until  it  was  about  to  fall  beneath 

_902— . 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY 


the  horse's  feet.  As  his  grasp  on  the  bridle-rein  loos- 
ened, the  man  reeled  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  a  nearby 
soldier.  The  horse  continued  on  and  plunged  into  the 
friendly  woods.  His  rider  had  been  the  beloved  gen- 
eral, ''Stonewall"  Jackson — shot  by  his  own  men  in  the 
supposed  performance  of  their  duty. 

Tenderly  the  general  was  laid  on  the  ground  while 
a  surgeon  dressed  his  wounds.  A  litter  was  secured, 
and  the  idolized  commander  was  lifted  and  carefully 
placed  in  it.  Willing  hands  grasped  the  handles  and 
bore  it  off.  The  Union  army,  awakened  by  the  volleys 
of  the  Confederates,  now  began  to  fire  great  broadsides 
into  the  woods.  Shells  shrieked  and  hummed  as  they 
sang  their  song  of  destruction.  The  forward  bearer  of 
the  litter  with  its  precious  burden,  stumbled  and  sank 
to  the  ground.  Then  men,  frightened  by  the  hissing 
shells  which  were  sweeping  the  road  they  were  travel- 
ing, dropped  the  litter  and  scudded  for  cover.  The 
general  rose  to  his  feet  in  great  pain,  and,  assisted  by 
his  loyal  captain,  the  Rev.  James  P.  Smith,  stumbled 
to  the  side  of  the  road,  where  he  was  again  placed  upon 
the  litter,  while  loyal  hands  were  found  to  carry  it. 

Again  a  bearer  was  shot  down,  and  this  time  the 
litter  careened  and  the  brave  general  was  thrown  to  the 
ground,  with  a  groan  of  deep  pain.  The  gallant  Captain 
Smith  rushed  to  him  and  lifted  his  head,  as  a  stray 
beam  of  moonlight  found  its  way  through  the  trees  and 
rested  on  the  drawn,  agonized  face  of  the  stricken  man. 
"Never  mind  me,  Captain;  never  mind  me,"  he  gasped, 
and  to  General  Pender,  as  he  rushed  up,  he  said,  **You 
must  hold  your  ground.  General  Pender ;  you  must  hold 
your  ground,  sir." 

This  was  the  last  command  of  General  Jackson  on 
the  battlefield.  He  lingered  for  eight  days  in  great 
agony,  but  no  word  of  complaint  passed  his  lips. 

—203— 


HERO  TALES 


A  dispatch  was  sent  to  General  Lee  announcing 
formally  his  disability;  tidings  that  General  Lee  had 
received  before  the  dispatch  arrived.  Jackson's  chief 
wrote  in  reply  that  he  could  not  express  his  grief  at  the 
occurrence,  and  could  he  have  directed  events,  he  would 
have  chosen  for  the  good  of  the  Confederacy  to  have 
been  disabled  himself.  He  congratulated  Jackson  on 
the  victory,  declaring  that  it  was  due  to  his  skill  and 
energy. 

The  message  was  read  to  the  dying  soldier.  He 
turned  his  face  away  and  said,  ''General  Lee  is  very 
kind,  but  he  should  give  his  praise  to  God." 

The  North  and  South  grieved  alike  at  the  death  of 
this  brave  God-fearing  man. 

Great  the  world  believes  him  to  have  been  in  general- 
ship, but  he  was  greatest  and  noblest  in  that  he  was 
good ;  and  that,  without  a  selfish  thought,  he  gave  his 
talents  and  his  life  to  a  cause  that,  as  before  the  God  he 
so  devoutly  served,  he  deemed  right  and  just. 

They  buried  the  beloved  orphan  boy,  who  had  risen 
to  the  leadership  of  his  people,  under  the  flag  for  which 
he  had  given  his  life.  They  laid  him  away  in  the  little 
village  of  Lexington,  down  in  the  hills  of  Virginia,  and, 
as  the  last  bugle  sounded,  the  loving  hands  of  women 
and  children  heaped  flowers  upon  his  grave.  There, 
throughout  the  years,  they  go  as  to  some  holy  shrine 
and  lovingly  place  garlands  over  their  sleeping  hero, — 
General  Thomas  J.  Jackson. 

The  lad,  who  was  left  homeless  at  three  years  of  age, 
and  carried  through  life  the  magnificent  faith  that  ''a 
man  may  be  whatever  he  resolves  to  be  by  trusting  in 
God  and  himself,"  won  a  resting  place  in  the  hearts  of 
his  people — the  noblest  of  all  victories. 


—204- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  BATTLESHIPS  THAT 
VANQUISHED  A  PROUD  MONARCHY 


This  Is  the  tale  of  battleships 
that  unfurled  the  Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  old  Spanish 
Main  and  proclainned  to  the  world  that  a  new  power  had  risen 
over  the  seas.    It  is  the  tale  of  heroic  men  who  forced  an  ancient 
monarchy  to  make  its  last  stand  in  the  conflict  of  western  civilization. 

FF  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  of  Santiago, 
Cuba,  the  American  fleet  of  warships  lay, 
■waiting  for  the  Spanish  fleet,  which  were 
within.  There  they  had  lain  since  the  nine- 
teenth of  May,  in  1898,  having  dodged  the  American 
fleet  in  command  of  Admiral  Sampson  in  the  Caribbean 
Sea,  and  escaped  into  the  protection  of  the  forts  and 
the  harbor  of  Santiago. 

The  heroic  Lieutenant  Hobson  had  rnn  the  collier, 
Merrimac,  under  scathing  fire,  up  the  channel  of  the 
harbor,  and  had  sunk  her  across  the  entrance,  and  the 
Americans  rested,  secure  in  the  belief  that  they  had  the 
Spanish  ships  ''bottled  up"  and  at  their  mercy. 

The  siege  continued  through  the  months  of  May  and 
June,  with  no  change  in  the  position  of  the  two  fleets. 
On  Sunday  morning,  the  third  of  July,  1898,  the 
buglers  of  the  American  ships  sounded  the  call  to 
quarters,  and  the  jackies  tumbled  on  deck  in  their  best 
clothes  for  their  regular  Sunday  inspection. 

The  devout  Captain  Philip,  of  the  Texas,  had 
ordered  the  bugle  sounded  for  religious  services. 

—205— 


HERO  TALES 


The  watchful  lookout  on  the  Iowa  saw  a  line  of 
smoke  over  the  hills,  and  realizing  what  this  meant,  he 
reported  to  the  deck  and  the  signal  was  immediately 
run  up,  ''The  enemy  is  escaping  to  the  westward. '^ 
From  her  bridge,  a  six-pounder  boomed  out  over  the 
water,  to  call  the  attention  of  the  other  ships  to  her 
fluttering  signal  flags. 

Reading  the  signal  on  the  Iowa,  the  officers  on  the 
other  ships  of  the  American  fleet  also  sounded  the  call 
to  stations. 

On  every  vessel,  white  masses  were  to  be  seen 
scrambling  about.  Jackies  and  firemen  tumbled  over 
one  another  in  their  mad  haste  to  reach  their  posts. 
Officers  jumped  into  position  in  the  turrets,  without 
thought  that  they  were  wearing  their  best  uniforms. 
Captains  rushed  to  their  posts  in  the  conning  towers. 
Time  was  precious — scarce  enough  to  get  the  battle- 
hatches  screwed  on  tight. 

One  minute  after  the  first  signal,  the  Iowa  was 
moving  toward  the  harbor,  followed  by  the  other  ships. 

From  under  frowning  Morro  Castle,  the  Spanish 
fleet  was  speeding  at  thirteen  and  a  half  knots  an  hour. 
The  flagship,  Infanta  Maria  Teresa,  in  the  lead,  closely 
followed  by  the  armored  cruiser,  Almiranda  Oquendo 
and  Viscaya,  her  sister  ship,  so  much  like  the  Teresa 
that  they  could  hardly  be  told  apart.  Third  in  line  was 
the  most  modern  of  all,  the  splendid  Cristobal  Colon, 
Bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  long  line  of  battleships, 
were  the  torpedo-boat  destroyers,  Pluton  and  Furor. 

From  the  Teresa  came  a  flash  of  flame,  followed  by 
the  sullen  boom  of  a  heavy  gun,  and  the  battle  was  on. 
All  the  battleships  opened  up  their  fire,  and  the  forts 
on  the  heights  joined  in.  Spurts  of  water,  like  geysers, 
sprang  up  around  the  slow-moving  American  ships, 
showing  where  the  Spanish  shells  had  exploded.    The 

—206— 


THE  BATTLESHIPS 


American  fleet  returned  the  fire,  hurling  shot  after  shot 
at  the  escaping  squadron. 

It  seemed  impossible  for  the  American  ships  to 
overtake  or  intercept  the  fast-steaming  Spanish  fleet 
on  their  westward  co^H-se  for  the  open  sea,  that  spelled 
safety  for  them. 

Admiral  Sampson's  command  had  been  simple  and 
plain. 

* '  Should  the  enemy  come  out,  close  in  and  head  him 
off,"  and  the  ships  piled  on  coal,  and  endeavored  to 
follow  instructions. 

Admiral  Sampson  had  that  morning  gone  in  the 
Neiv  York  up  the  coast  to  confer  with  General  Shafter; 
and  the  command  devolved  upon  Admiral  Schley,  a 
capable  and  heroic  officer. 

It  soon  became  clear  to  the  pursuing  Americans  that 
Admiral  Cervera,  the  commander  of  the  Spanish  fleet, 
was  taking  his  entire  command  in  one  direction.  Then 
the  battle  became  furious.  The  din  was  terrific ;  cannon 
booming,  shot  rattling  against  the  steel  sides  of  the 
great  ships,  as  they  flew  through  the  water  at  a  tremen- 
dous rate  of  speed.  The  lotva  and  the  Oregon  headed 
for  the  shore  to  ram  one  or  more  of  the  ships,  if  possible. 
The  Indiana  and  Texas  followed  closely.  The  Brooklyn 
steamed  for  the  most  distant  western  point,  in  the 
endeavor  to  head  off  the  leader.  It  soon  became 
apparent  that  the  Americans  could  not  ram  the  ships, 
nor  overtake  the  speeding  leader.  They,  therefore, 
turned  and  ran  a  parallel  course,  keeping  up  the  fire. 
Broadside  followed  broadside,  and  the  impact  of  the 
shells  was  deafening. 

Suddenly,  the  Spanish  ships.  Furor  and  Pluton, 
turned  and  dashed  like  maddened  animals  at  the 
Brooklyn.  Before  they  had  time  to  do  serious  damage 
to  that  vessel,  the  signal,  ''Eepel  torpedo  destroyers," 

—207— 


HERO  TALES 


from  Admiral  Schley,  directed  the  concentrated  fire  of 
the  American  sliips  upon  the  little  monsters.  Clonds  of 
black  smoke  poured  from  them  as  they  floundered  in  the 
sea.    Shot  and  shell  fell  with  deadly  and  accurate  aim. 

''They  are  on  fire!  We've  finished  them!"  rang 
the  cry  from  ship  to  ship. 

Far  in  the  lead  of  her  sister-ships,  the  Colon  was 
steaming  furiously,  making  desperate  efforts  to  escape 
the  gruelling  fire  of  the  pursuing  Brooklyn  and  Oregon. 
They  were  going  like  express  trains,  using  every  ounce 
of  power  that  the  brave  firemen  below  in  the  bowels  of 
the  great  leviathans  could  force  from  the  engines.  The 
chase  lasted  two  hours.  The  pursuing  ships  drew 
within  firing  range,  and  opened  their  terrible  batteries 
of  flame  upon  the  doomed  ship  in  front.  The  concus- 
sion of  the  impact  from  the  American  shells  stunned 
the  Spanish  gunners  and  drove  them  back  from  their 
cannon,  only  to  be  driven  forward  again  to  their  duty 
by  the  Spanish  officers.  The  Americans  expected 
desperate  resistance  to  their  attack  by  this  great,  splen- 
did ship,  with  her  smokeless  powder  and  modern  guns ; 
but,  to  their  surprise,  the  Spanish  captain  struck  his 
colors  and  headed  his  ship  for  the  shore  to  sink  her, 
sixty  miles  from  Santiago.  The  greatest  sea-fight  of 
modern  times  was  over. 

The  word  of  victory  passed  over  the  ships  like 
wildfire.  Streams  of  men  swarmed  the  deck  from 
below,  where  they  had  labored  to  their  utmost,  black 
with  smoke  and  coal  and  glistening  with  sweat,  but  wild 
with  joy.  Admiral  Schley  gazed  down  from  the  bridge 
upon  the  begrimed  but  joyous  firemen,  and  with  glisten- 
ing eyes  and  a  voice  husky  with  emotion,  said :  "Those 
are  the  fellows  who  won  the  day.'* 

Thus  perished  from  the  seas  the  best  part  of  the 
navy  of  that  once  mightiest  of  world-powers,  Spain. 

—208— 


GENERAL  LAWTON   IN  THE  PHILIPPINES 


ARMY  OF  AGUINALDO   IN  THE   PHILIPPINES 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  GALLANT  HORSEMAN 
WHO  SUBDUED  THE  CRUEL  APACHE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  horseman 
who  followed  the  trail  of  a  great  Indian  tribe  on 
the  war-path  and  forced  them  into  submission  to  the  will  of 
the  white  man.    It  is  the  tale  of  the  last  stand  of  a  once  powerful 
people  who  were  driven  before  the  flaming  torch  of  a  mightier  civilization. 

THIS  spring  day  in  the  year  1886,  a  troop  of 
cavalrymen  were  riding  across  the  plains  of 
Arizona,  in  the  fierce  glare  of  the  fiery  sun. 
Clouds  of  alkali  dust  rose  from  under  the 
horses'  hoofs,  choking  the  riders  and  settling  over  their 
clothes,  thus  hiding  the  once  spick  and  span  uniforms 
of  United  States  cavalrymen.  Leading  the  troop  of 
strong,  wiry  horsemen,  and  seated  on  a  great,  black 
charger,  was  the  splendid  figure,  close-knit  and  strong, 
of  their  gallant  captain. 

Standing,  this  man  towered  six  feet  and  two  inches, 
the  very  ideal  of  a  military  leader.  His  face  was  stern 
and  unrelenting,  but  his  eyes  held  a  glint  of  kindness. 

For  days,  this  band  of  horsemen  had  been  in  pursuit 
of  the  vicious  Apache  chief,  Geronimo,  who  had  for  the 
tenth  time  led  his  tribe  in  their  escape  f  roni  the  govern- 
ment reservation,  on  a  raid  against  the  white  people  in 
the  surrounding  country.  Their  atrocious  acts  had 
aroused  the  government,  and  the  troops  had  been  hur- 
riedly despatched  after  the  Indians,  to  round  them  up 
and  bring  them  back. 

—209— 


HERO  TALES 


Further  and  further  they  rode  into  the  awful  waste, 
thirsty  and  starving.  Through  deserts  l3are  of  shelter 
for  the  tired  horses  and  men,  they  kept  up  the  grim 
chase.  Now  the  trail  led  into  the  foot-hills.  Horses 
were  abandoned  utterly  exhausted,  unable  to  endure 
the  terrible  struggle  that  the  courageous  captain  and 
his  men  passed  tli rough  uncomplainingly.  Deeper  into 
the  vast  solitudes  they  toiled.  Climbing  over  the 
volcanic  crests  that  rose  before  them,  their  shoes  cut 
and  torn  by  the  sharp  lava  that  lay  in  their  path,  faith- 
fully they  followed  their  determined  leader.  They 
wandered  in  canyons  so  deep  that  daylight  seldom 
sufficed  to  show  the  fatigued  men  where  to  place  their 
feet.  Now  and  again  they  were  lost  in  the  awful  wastes, 
only  to  pick  up  the  trail  of  the  fleeing  Indians  and 
eagerly  push  on  with  their  chase.  They  lived  on  the 
animals  of  the  country,  no  wilder  than  the  savages  that 
they  were  chasing.  Now  and  then  a  puff  of  blue  smoke 
rose  lazily  on  the  furnace-like  air,  above  the  trees,  and 
a  bullet  hummed  over  their  heads,  telling  of  the  near- 
ness of  their  quarry.  The  cavalrymen  had  long  since 
been  traveling  on  foot.  The  brave  captain  had  said  to 
his  sergeant  when  the  horses  gave  out,  "We  will  walk 
them  down,"  and  with  set  teeth  they  ivere  walking  them 
down. 

Week  after  week  the  band  of  men  toiled  over  moun- 
tains, through  canyons,  and  across  arid  deserts,  cheered 
by  the  brave  example  of  their  untiring  commander. 

Six  weeks  after  the  courageous  troop  had  gaily  left 
their  garrison,  they  were  encamped  at  the  foot  of  a 
mountain.  Night  had  fallen,  and,  with  pickets  thrown 
out,  they  had  lain  down  to  regain  some  of  their  strength 
for  the  iiard  march  of  the  morrow.  Suddenly,  a  soldier 
on  guard  espied  a  staggering  figure  coming  toward  the 
camp.    He  drew  nearer.    In  the  light  from  the  camp- 

—210— 


THE  GALLANT  HORSEMAN 


fire  the  soldier  saw  that  the  reeling  figure  was  an 
Ai)ache,  and  he  knew  that  the  Apaches  were  one  of  the 
most  treacherous  of  the  tribes  roaming  the  wild  west- 
ern plains.  With  gun  in  readiness,  the  soldier  waited 
for  the  Indian  to  approach.  He  staggered  up  and  fell 
exhausted  at  the  feet  of  the  cavalryman.  He  was  a 
fearful  sight — thin  and  haggard,  his  bones  about  to 
burst  through  his  skin,  his  feet  torn  and  bleeding.  He 
called  for  the  captain, ' '  Man-who-gets-up-in-the-night, ' ' 
as  he  called  him;  and  well  he  might  so  call  him,  for  this 
man  was  the  most  deeply  feared  foe  of  all  Indians,  for 
he  had  studied  their  methods  and  fought  them  with 
their  own  game. 

"Geronimo  give  up,"  was  the  message. 

The  captain's  face  glowed  with  pleasure  in  the 
knowledge  of  a  deed  well  done.  But  the  Apache  chief 
demanded  that  the  captain  come,  and  alone,  to  his 
stronghold  in  the  fastness  of  the  mountains  above. 
Despite  the  earnest  urging  of  his  officers  to  take  a  body- 
guard, he  prepared  to  go  into  the  den  of  the  treacherous 
Apaches,  worse  than  wild  wolves. 

Up  into  the  mountains,  led  by  the  Indian,  the  captain 
marched,  always  on  the  alert  for  treachery,  for,  though 
he  was  brave,  he  was  not  careless  of  his  life.  Now  he 
was  in  the  den  of  the  starving  Indians.  Skeleton  fingers 
pointed  at  him,  cavernous  eyes  glared  their  messages 
of  racial  hatred.  From  fleshless  jaws  came  words  of 
pleading,  intermingled  with  words  of  wrath.  Up  to  the 
treacherous  Indian  chief  he  stalked,  a  magnificent 
figure,  clad  in  a  faded  fatigue  jacket,  his  trousers  so 
soiled  that  the  white  stripe  down  the  leg  was  hardly 
visible,  his  boots  broken,  and  his  head  crowned  with  a 
disreputable  sombrero  that  shaded  his  sunburned 
features,  every  inch  a  soldier  and  a  man.  He  **  pow- 
wowed" with  Geronimo  and  commanded  Mm  to  sur- 

^211— 


HERO  TALES 


render.  As  lie  stood  among  them,  he  seemed  by  virtue 
of  superior  courage  and  strength  and  hardihood,  com- 
plete master  of  the  situation. 

This  man  had  met  the  Apaches  on  their  own  battle- 
ground, and  in  a  test  of  their  boasted  powers  of  endur- 
ance, had  run  them  down,  on  foot,  and  was  in  better 
physical  condition  at  the  end  of  the  long,  two  months' 
gruelling  contest,  than  the  Indians.  Such  was  the  fear 
that  he  inspired  that  the  Indians  gave  up,  and  followed 
the  brave  soldier,  Captain  Henry  W.  Lawton,  like 
sheep,  to  the  reservation,  to  be  given  over  to  General 
Miles  as  prisoners.  This  broke  up  the  roving  bands  of 
Arizona,  so  that  the  white  man  was  able  to  live  there  in 
security,  to  till  the  land  and  bring  forth  its  natural 
wealth. 

Years  later,  Lawton,  then  Brigadier-General,  while 
leading  his  men  in  a  fearless  at.tack  on  the  rebellious 
Filipinos  at  San  Mateo,  in  the  very  front  of  his  cheer- 
ing, fighting  soldiers,  was  struck  and  fell,  to  die  in  less 
than  a  moment  in  the  service  of  his  country,  while  over 
his  lifeless  form  waved  victorious  the  flag  of  Liberty. 


"She's  up  there,— Old  Glory.— where  lightnings  are  sped; 
She  dazzles  the  nations  with  ripples  of  red; 
And  she'll  wave  for  us  living,  or  droop  o'er  us  dead,— 
The  flag  of  our  country  forever! 

"She's  up  there,— Old  Glory,— how  bright  the  stars  stream! 
And  the  stripes  like  red  signals  of  liberty  gleam! 
And  we  dare  for  her,  living,  or  dream  the  last  dream, 
'Neath  the  flag  of  our  country  forever! 

"She's  up  there,— Old  Glory,— no  tyrant-dealt  scars. 
No  blur  on  her  brightness,  no  stain  on  her  stars! 
The  brave  blood  of  heroes  hath  crimsoned  her  bars. 
She's  the  flag  of  our  country  forever!" 


—212— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  LIFE-SAVERS  WHO 
RISK  THEIR  LIVES  FOR  DUTY 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  life-savers 
who  patrol  the  coasts  of  the  Nation  and  brave  the  perils 
of  v^ind  and  wave  to  save  those  who  are  in  danger.     It  is  the 
tale  of  men  who  at  this  very  hour  are  standing  on  duty  listening  for 
the  call  of  distress  that  rides  on  the  surf  from  the  raging  storms  at  sea. 

LONG  the  coasts  of  the  United  States,  at  every 
hour  of  the  day  and  night,  are  men  in  long, 
rubber  coats  and  high-drawn  boots,  with  hats 
that  protect  them  from  the  weather,  on  silent 
patrol.  Shielding  their  eyes  with  their  hands,  they 
peer  far  out  at  sea,  these  guardians  of  the  safety  of 
men  on  the  ocean,  and  harken  for  the  call  of  the  ship  in 
distress. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night  in  mid-winter,  along 
Monmouth  Beach  in  New  Jersey,  where  the  great  ocean- 
liners,  bearing  on  their  decks  whole  cities  of  humanity, 
heave  in  sight  at  the  end  of  their  long  journeys  from 
Europe. 

The  flying  snow  and  fog  almost  obscured  the  horizon, 
and  the  surf  was  like  the  booming  of  great  guns  as  the 
waves  rolled  in,  mountain-high.  There  have  been  many 
dreadful  storms,  but  nothing  so  terrible  in  all  the  mem- 
ory of  the  Life-Saving  Station,  as  the  gale  that  devas- 
tated the  coast  on  that  icy  February  day  in  1880. 

*'Boys,"  said  Captain  Valentine,  peering  out  into 
the  storm,  *  *  there  is  going  to  be  trouble.    In  all  my  life, 

—213— 


HERO  TALES 


I  have  never  seen  a  gale  like  this.  May  heaven  help  the 
brave  fellows  at  sea  to-night!" 

The  men  at  Station  Four  anxiously  waited  and 
hardly  took  their  eyes  from  the  ocean.  Signals  of 
distress  were  sure  to  come,  for  no  vessel  could  live  long 
in  such  a  sea.  The  only  bright  spot  to  be  seen  in  the 
dreary  landscape  was  the  cheery  red  of  the  life-saving 
station  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floating  a  welcome 
to  all  travelers  in  distress.  As  the  hours  wore  away 
and  the  storm  increased,  the  men  held  themselves  in 
readiness  to  brave  the  gale  at  the  first  call  from  the  sea. 
When  darkness  settled,  it  was  impossible  to  see  beyond 
the  breakers  tossing  their  white  crests  beneath  the 
driving  rain  and  snow. 

Captain  Valentine  stood  on  watch  in  the  tower, 
although  weak  from  a  recent  illness ;  and  his  men 
patrolled  the  beach,  straining  their  eyes  to  see  the 
blurred  horizon.  Out  beyond  the  pounding  surf,  and 
hidden  from  the  Captain's  anxious  eyes,  two  vessels 
struggled  in  the  storm  and  darkness.  The  great  waves 
tossed  them  like  chips  on  their  bosom  and  drove  them 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  treacherous  Jersey  shore. 

It  was  a  little  after  midnight.  The  raging  storm 
was  at  its  worst.  A  faint  sound  rose  above  the  roaring 
of  the  billows.  It  sounded  like  the  sobs  and  cries  of 
women  and  children. 

' '  May  God  help  them ! "  said  Captain  Valentine,  as 
he  stood  in  the  tower,  and  quickly  grasping  his  torch, 
he  flashed  the  message  that  is  dear  to  the  heart  of  every 
man  of  the  seas. 

The  only  reply  from  the  impenetrable  darkness  was 
the  plaintive  call  that  he  had  heard  before. 

Tense  moments  followed  as  the  men  prepared  their 
apparatus  for  the  coming  struggle.  Out  of  the  storm 
of  blinding  snow  from  a  sand  bar  a  hundred  yards 

—214— 


THE  LIFE-SAVERS 


from  the  beacli,  issued  faint  cries  for  help  from  the 
imperilled  crew  of  the  schooner,  E.  C.  Babcock,  wrecked 
in  the  raging  sea.  It  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment  for 
the  life-savers  to  rush  their  cannon  into  position  and 
shoot  the  life-line  out  over  the  seething  water  to  the 
barelj''  discernible  boat  in  distress.  A  tug  on  the  light 
line  showed  that  their  aim  had  been  accurate  in  spite 
of  the  driving  snow.  The  reel,  on  which  the  heavier  line 
was  wound,  commenced  to  revolve,  as  the  endangered 
sailor-men  pulled  the  line  toward  them.  The  heavy 
hawser,  on  its  stanchion,  began  to  vibrate,  and  into 
view  appeared  a  woman,  supported  in  the  breeches- 
Imoy.  Again  and  again  the  breeches-buoy  traveled 
back  and  forth  between  the  shore  and  the  stricken  ship, 
each  time  bringing  to  safety  a  man  or  woman. 

After  half  an  hour's  work  the  life-savers  had 
rescued  the  passengers  and  crew  from  the  schooner, 
and  they  were  ensconced  in  the  warm  Life-Saving 
Station,  resting  after  their  arduous  night. 

The  crew  were  busy  cleaning  the  apparatus,  getting 
it  ready  for  the  next  emergency,  when  into  their  midst 
dashed  a  beach  patrolman,  breathless,  with  the  startling 
news  that  a  brig  was  headed  directly  for  the  shore. 
Captain  Valentine  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out  over 
the  waste  of  swollen  surf,  beating  uproariously  on  the 
beach.  The  snow  had  changed  to  a  drizzling  rain  and 
in  the  light  of  the  early  dawn  could  be  seen  the  Spanish 
brig  Augustina,  driving  straight  for  the  shore.  Run- 
ning directly  before  the  tremendous  sea  and  wind,  with 
split  sails,  the  brig  piled  on  the  sand-bar  with  a  shiver- 
ing shock, 

"To  the  beach!"  shouted  the  captain,  and  within  a 
few  minutes  the  life-saving  crew  were  upon  the  spot 
opposite  the  wreck,  with  their  apparatus  ready  for  the 
struggle  with  the  ice-cold  water  and  wind.    The  cannon 


HERO  TALES 


was  in  position,  and  with  a  boom  sent  the  life-line  out 
on  its  errand  of  mercy.  It  fell  short.  Before  the 
cannon  was  again  ready  to  be  fired,  surfman  White, 
with  almost  reckless  daring,  had  rushed  down  into  the 
waves  as  far  as  possible  and  putting  forth  all  his 
strength,  had  sent  a  heaving-stick  and  line  on  board  the 
pounding  ship.  The  Spanish  sailors  seized  it.  They 
eagerly  examined  it,  but  seemed  puzzled  as  to  its  use; 
they  disregarded  the  tally-board,  written  in  French 
and  English,  which  was  attached  to  the  line,  explaining 
the  use  of  the  apparatus.  They  thought  that  it  was 
merely  a  piece  of  wreckage  entangled  in  the  tackle.  A 
figure  was  seen  to  grasp  the  line  and  start  hand-over- 
hand, through  the  raging  surf,  strewn  with  wreckage 
from  the  Babcock  going  to  pieces  on  the  beach  but  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away.  ' '  Stop  1  Stop ! ' '  shouted  the 
surfman. 

Unheeding  the  warning,  the  man  kept  on  until  half- 
way to  the  beach,  when  a  monster  wave  threw  him  in 
the  air.  He  held  on,  but  as  he  came  down  with  terrific 
force  the  line  parted  and  he  was  soon  struggling  help- 
lessly amid  the  wreckage  in  the  swirling  water.  From 
the  beach,  a  figure  darted  into  the  raging  waves ;  out 
he  went,  struggling  to  keep  his  feet.  Now  he  had  the 
drowning  man  and  had  started  for  the  shore.  A  rush 
of  driftwood  washed  over  the  two  struggling  men  and 
they  disappeared  from  view.  Up  they  came,  and  with 
desperate  efforts  the  surfman.  Garret  H.  White, 
regained  his  feet,  with  the  sailor  tight  in  his  grasp. 
Fighting  again  the  treacherous  undertow,  the  two  men 
finally  reached  the  beach,  amid  the  cheers  of  two  hun- 
dred people,  who  had  gathered  there  to  watch  the 
gallant  efforts  of  the  brave  life-savers.  Despite  the 
sad  outcome  of  the  first  man's  attempt  to  climb  to 
shore,  two  sailors  were  seen  to  be  coming  hand  over 

—216— 


THE  LIFE-SAVERS 


hand.  They,  too,  were  whipped  into  the  sea,  and  surf- 
man  Van  Brunt  dashed  to  their  rescue,  but  was  knocked 
down  by  the  thrashing  wreckage.  Into  the  surf  fisher- 
men flung  themselves,  hands  locked  together  in  file. 
The  end  man  seized  the  floundering  surfman,  and 
brought  him  to  shore. 

White,  with  untiring  strength,  battled  to  the  side  of 
one  of  the  sinking  Spanish  sailors  and  brought  him  to 
shore,  while  two  of  his  comrades  rescued  the  other. 
Thus,  fighting  hand-to-hand  with  the  tumbling  water 
and  wreckage,  the  heroic  crew  brought  the  entire  crew 
of  the  Spanish  brig  safely  to  shore.  From  the  terrified 
sailors  it  was  learned  that  the  captain  of  the  wrecked 
vessel  was  still  on  board,  disabled  and  unable  to  help 
himself.  Out  over  the  water  to  the  doomed  brig  that 
had  been  driven  nearer  the  beach  by  the  tremendous 
seas  the  life-line  curved,  this  time  to  fasten  securely  in 
the  rigging.  Into  the  breeches-buoy  climbed  the 
intrepid  White,  and  was  sent  out  to  the  ship.  He 
carried  the  captain  from  his  cabin  and  placed  him  in 
the  breeches-buoy.  Away  over  the  angry  sea  he  was 
pulled  to  safety,  rescued  from  almost  certain  death. 
Then  the  breeches-buoy  was  sent  out  to  the  heroic  surf- 
man,  and  he,  too,  came  to  the  beach,  amid  great 
applause,  tired  but  happy  in  the  knowledge  of  a  good 
deed  well  done.  As  a  mark  of  appreciation,  the  United 
States  Government  gave  the  gallant  crew  and  Captain 
Valentine  the  gold  medal,  the  highest  mark  of  commen- 
dation in  the  service. 

Somewhere  along  the  coast  of  these  United  States 
at  this  very  hour  the  mighty  Atlantic  or  the  Pacific  is  in 
stubborn  combat  with  man;  somewhere  the  siren  call 
of  a  lost  ship  is  sounding  over  the  waves  and  heroic 
men  are  answering  the  summons. 


—217— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    DIPLOMAT   WHO 
DID  NOT  FORGET  THE  DEBT 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  an  Ambassador 
whio  risked  liis  life  and  his  reputation  to  repay  the  debt 
of  his  Nation  to  those  who  had  lent  it  a  helping  hand  in  the 
time  of  need  and  now  needed  one  in  return,     it  is  a  tale  of  a  man 
who  did  not  forget  when  the  moment  of  opportunity  knocked  at  his  door. 

ON  THE  tenth  of  August,  in  1792,  several  French 
men  and  women  surged  up  the  steps  leading 
to  the  American  legation  in  Paris,  fugitives 
from  the  wild  mob  that  was  sacking  the  city, 
and  had  put  to  flight  the  trained  soldiers  of  Louis  XVI. 
It  was  during  the  French  Eevolution,  that  fearful 
struggle  for  liberty  which  held  a  great,  old-world 
nation  in  its  grasp  as  it  had  held  the  new  world  but  a 
few  years  before. 

They  beat  on  the  doors  of  the  legation,  seeking 
protection  from  the  incensed  rabble  that  was  rapidly 
closing  on  their  heels.  Would  the  door  never  open? 
Their  pursuers  were  almost  upon  them.  Shrill  cries 
filled  the  air.  Missiles  flew  at  the  little  band  of  men 
and  women  standing,  so  helplessly,  before  the  infuri- 
ated mob  of  French  citizens,  their  own  countiymen, 
whose  only  crime  was  that  they  belonged  to  the  aris- 
tocracy. The  mob  was  hunting  their  lives,  as  blood- 
hounds hunt  the  fugitive. 

These  were  trying  days  for  all.  Foreigners  and 
natives  were  treated  alike,  if  caught  in  the  streets 

— 218— 


THE  DIPLOMAT 


unguarded.  The  door  of  the  embassy  was  cautiously 
opened.  A  short  parley  ensued.  The  door  opened 
wider,  and  the  little  hunted  band  hurried  inside,  under 
the  protection  of  the  United  States  flag — saved  from 
their  own  countrymen.  "With  hysterical  cries,  the 
delicately-nurtured  women  of  the  French  nobility  threw 
themselves  at  the  feet  of  the  American  minister, 
Gouverneur  Morris,  thanking  him  again  and  again  for 
his  heroism  in  giving  them  refuge.  It  was  a  splendid 
act  of  heroism ;  for  thus  he  not  only  endangered  his  own 
life,  but  he  took  a  heavy  responsibility  beyond  his 
authority  in  protecting  these  defenseless  people  from 
the  assaults  of  the  agents  of  the  newly  established 
republic. 

Many  of  this  little  group  had  served  the  American 
republic,  under  arms,  in  its  struggle  with  England  for 
independence,  bearing  themselves  with  bravery  and 
performing  deeds  of  heroism.  This  the  minister 
remembered,  and  when  they  came  to  him  seeking  pro- 
tection, he  thought  only  of  the  debt  that  his  government 
owed  these  people,  and  determined  to  repay  it. 

Minister  Morris  said  to  one  of  his  friends ;  ' '  I  have 
no  doubt  that  there  are  persons  on  watch  who  would 
fmd  fault  with  my  conduct  as  minister  in  receiving 
these  people ;  but  they  were  not  invited  to  my  house ; 
they  came  of  their  own  accord.  Whether  my  house  will 
be  a  protection  to  them,  or  to  me,  God  only  knows,  but 
I  will  not  turn  them  out  of  it,  let  what  will  happen.  It 
would  be  inhuman  to  force  them  into  the  hands  of  the 
assassins." 

This  simple  statement  shows  the  heroism  of  this 
brave  man,  who  was  willing  to  risk  his  own  life  and  his 
prestige  as  a  minister  for  the  sake  of  a  people  who  had 
at  one  time  befriended  the  Americans. 

Minister  Morris  remained  at  his  post  during  all 
—219— 


HERO  TALES 


the  fearful  days  of  the  revolution,  when  the  streets 
literally  ran  with  blood,  and  the  crazed  mobs  sacked  the 
palaces.  The  city  was  a  scene  of  terror,  completely  at 
the  mercy  of  bloodthirsty  murderers.  He  was  advised 
by  friends  to  desert  his  duty,  and  received  threats  of 
violence  from  the  rabble  unless  he  should  depart ;  but, 
undaunted,  he  clung  to  his  post  until  quiet  had  been 
restored  in  the  city.  To  one  of  his  friends  he  wrote 
during  this  trying  period :  "It  is  true  that  the  position 
is  not  without  danger,  but  I  presume  that  when  the 
President  did  me  the  honor  of  appointing  me  to  this 
embassy  it  was  not  for  my  personal  pleasure  or  safety, 
but  to  promote  the  interests  of  my  country.  These, 
therefore,  I  shall  continue  to  pursue  to  the  best  of  my 
judgment,  and  as  to  the  consequences,  they  are  in  the 
hands  of  God." 

His  courageous  humanity  is  something  that  should 
always  be  remembered.  It  is  inspiring  to  think  of  that 
fearless  figure,  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  awful 
danger  and  the  blood-curdling  scenes  of  the  French 
Eevolution,  protecting  not  only  his  own  countrymen  in 
Paris,  but  also  the  endangered  French  citizen. 


"Ah,  we  can  ne'er  forget 
The  princely  Lafayette, 

Who  came  to  aid  ns  in  our  time  of  need; 
Nor  galhint  Rochambeau 
And  Count  de  Grasse,  whose  blow 
Routed  our  mighty  foe 
That  all  the  world  might  know 

America  from  bonds  forever  freed! 

"Your  valor  we  recall, 

Your  sacrifice,  and  all 
The  struggle  fierce  you  made  for  us  and  ours, 

The  ceaseless  flight  of  time 

But  speaks  your  act  sublime; 

The  hurrying  centuries  chime 

In  grand,  heroic  rhyme, 
This  noble  consecration  of  your  powers." 

—220— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  MARTYRED  SEAMEN 
WHO  BROKE  THE  BONDS  OF  TYRANNY 


This  Is  the  tale  of  American  seamen 
whose  lives  were  the  purchase  price  of  freedom  for  a 
people  in  bondage;  whose  martyrdom  gave  birth  to  a  new  Nation 
and  unloosed  the  shackles  of  more  than  four  centuries.    It  is  the 
tale  of  America's  sacrifice  for  suffering  humanity  and  its  terrible  cost. 

IT  WAS  a  fine,  clear  day  in  the  Southern  waters. 
Through  the  portals  of  the  harbor  of  Havana 
swept  the  second-class  battleship  Maine  of  the 
United  States  navy,  the  waves  gracefully  curving 
from  her  sharp  cut-water.  The  white  sides  of  the 
splendid  ship  were  lined  with  the  crew,  some  of  whom 
were  looking  for  the  first  time  on  the  beautiful  Havana 
beyond;  others  recognizing  familiar  points  that  had 
an  especial  interest  to  them,  recalling  some  pleasant 
episode  that  had  occurred  on  some  former  visit.  The 
rays  of  the  sun  were  reflected  from  the  shining  brass, 
spotlessly  clean,  and  the  snow-white  sides  of  the  great 
warship.  Saluting  guns  from  the  forts  on  shore  gave 
her  welcome,  as  she  moved  up  to  the  buoy  and  came  to 
anchor. 

Clouds  of  smoke  drifted  from  the  side  of  the  Maine 
as  she  returned  the  welcome.  Men  hurried  about, 
executing  the  various  orders  issued  by  the  officers,  and 
preparing  the  ship  for  visitors. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight — the  monster  ship  in  the 

foreground  of  the  open  sea,  frowning  fortresses  on  the 

001 


HERO  TALES 


side  of  the  harbor,  and  the  Cuban  metropolis  in  front, 
with  its  white  buildings  and  long  piers,  crowded  with  a 
multitude  of  people. 

Boats  scudded  about  the  bay,  and  from  the  wharves 
launches  were  dashing,  conveying  the  port  officials  out 
to  the  big  battleship,  to  give  the  representatives  of  the 
United  States  Government  assurance  of  the  good  feel- 
ing existing  in  the  island. 

A  continual  stream  of  boats  crossed  the  waters  of 
the  harbor  all  through  the  day,  many  of  them  carrying 
Americans  who  had  left  their  native  land  in  pursuit  of 
their  business  interests.  The  hearts  of  these  Americans 
thrilled  as  they  neared  the  side  of  the  ship,  a  ship  of 
their  navy,  lined  with  the  faces  of  the  sturdy  sailors, 
their  fellow-countrymen.  The  night  drew  on,  and  on 
shore  the  lights  were  beginning  to  appear ;  here  a  soli- 
tary flash  and  there  another,  like  fire-flies  in  the  dark, 
soon  to  break  out  all  over,  driving  the  gloom  from  this 
gay  city.  Boats  loaded  with  American  jackies  were 
drawing  away  from  the  Maine,  headed  for  the  piers,  the 
men  anticipating  a  frolic  on  land,  after  the  long  sea- 
trip  and  its  attendant  arduous  routine  of  duty.  Prior 
to  the  coming  of  the  Maine,  violent  outbreaks  and  riots 
had  occurred  in  Havana,  and  the  battleship  had  been 
despatched  to  protect  United  States  citizens  and  prop- 
erty, and,  if  possible,  to  quell  the  mobs.  For  three 
weeks  the  Blaine  lay  quietly  in  the  harbor  of  Havana, 
watching,  but  not  interfering,  with  the  situation,  and 
her  presence  did  not  provoke  any  demonstration  of  hos- 
tility. Still,  the  Spanish  feeling  of  hatred  for  the 
American  ship  was  intense,  and  frequently  there  were 
derisive  calls,  from  the  passing  boats,  of  Cochinos 
Yanlcees  and  their  podrida  escuadra  (Yankee  pigs  and 
their  rotten  squadron).  Despite  these  taunts,  the  Am- 
ericans quietly  attended  to  their  duties. 


_090. 


THE  MARTYRED  SEAMEN 


On  the  night  of  the  fifteenth  of  February,  1898,  most 
of  the  ship's  officers  had  gone  on  shore  to  attend  a 
reception  to  pass  away  a  few  care-free  hours,  in  relief 
from  responsibility.  The  city  was  gay  with  light.  The 
harbor  was  quiet  and  calm.  The  cool,  evening  breezes 
were  fanning  the  cheeks  of  the  watchful  men,  pacing 
the  decks  of  the  Maine,  ever  on  the  lookout  for  enemies, 
even  in  the  time  of  peace.  The  gallant  commander  of 
this  floating  fortress,  sitting  in  his  cabin,  had  just  com- 
pleted an  inspection  of  his  ship  and  was  resting.  The 
crew  were  below  decks  peacefully  sleeping. 

The  silence  of  the  tropical  night  was  suddenly 
dispelled  by  a  tremendous  report,  closely  followed  by  a 
second  louder  explosion.  From  deep  down  in  the 
depths  of  the  ship  came  the  roar  of  the  explosions. 
The  majestic  Maine  was  instantly  transformed  into  a 
partial  wreck.  The  flying  debris  scattered  over  the 
other  vessels  in  the  harbor,  and  the  water  around  was 
strewn  with  the  wreckage.  Windows  on  the  shore  were 
shattered,  and  lights  along  the  water  front  extinguished 
by  the  tremendous  vibration  of  the  shock. 

Captain  Charles  D.  Sigsbee,  commander  of  the 
Maine,  thinking  only  of  his  ship  and  his  men,  started 
for  the  deck  and  crashed  into  an  orderly  in  the  darkness, 
for  all  the  lights  on  the  ship  had  gone  out.  The  brave, 
young  orderly,  in  whom  the  discipline  of  years  could 
not  be  shaken  even  by  an  explosion,  calmly  saluted,  and 
waited  for  permission  to  speak  to  his  commanding 
officer. 

i  i  I  regret  to  report  that  the  ship  has  been  blown  up, 
sir." 

The  captain  ran  on  deck.  The  survivors  were  at 
their  stations.  They  had  been  more  fortunate  than 
their  poor  comrades,  sleeping  directly  over  the  seat  of 
the  explosion,  who  were  instantly  killed. 

—223— 


HERO  TALES 


The  order  to  flood  the  magazines  was  passed  along. 

But  the  magazines,  partly  exploded,  were  already 
filled  by  the  water  ponring  through  the  shattered  frame 
of  the  vessel. 

The  Maine  was  blazing  fiercely,  her  upper  works 
were  completely  destroyed  and  hanging  to  the  deck, 
greatly  endangering  the  men  hurrying  about  executing 
the  orders  of  their  officers. 

Three  of  the  ship's  boats  were  hanging  at  her  sides, 
all  that  were  left  of  her  great  number.  Calmly  the 
sailors  awaited  the  order  to  abandon  ship,  and  when  it 
came,  in  perfect  order,  the  boats  were  lowered  and  the 
wounded  tenderly  placed  in  them.  Then  the  remaining 
boats  were  loaded  with  men  and  sent  ashore.  Boats 
from  the  Spanish  warship,  Alfonso  XII.,  and  the  dtp 
of  Washington  were  scouring  the  surroimding  waters, 
picking  up  the  struggling  men,  blown  from  the  ship  by 
the  explosion.  The  Maine  was  now  a  mass  of  flames 
and  rapidly  settling.  Explosion  after  explosion  burst 
out,  as  the  ammunition  caught  fire,  hurling  steel 
splinters  high  in  the  air  to  fall  about  the  rescue-boats 
like  hail.  The  wreck  continued  to  burn  for  four  hours, 
lighting  up  the  harbor  and  shore  as  if  it  were  day.  The 
Maine  was  a  total  wreck,  sinking  in  about  thirty  feet  of 
water,  her  upper  works  standing  above  tha  surface  like 
a  monument  to  martyrdom. 

Of  the  six  hundred  and  fourteen  men  and  thirty- 
five  officers,  two  hundred  and  sixty-six  were  lost. 

The  catastrophe  appalled  the  nations  of  the  world, 
and  many  a  home  was  shrouded  in  mourning.  The 
heart  of  the  nation  was  aroused.  Haughty  Spain  re- 
sented the  suspicion  of  her  responsibility.  A  great  war 
broke  out,  in  which  a  struggling  people  were  released 
from  bondage,  and  a  new  republic  arose  from  the  ashes 
of  the  Maine. 

224 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  LIGHTHOUSE  WOMAN 
ON  THE  CLIFFS  OF  LIME  ROCK 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  daughter 
of  a  lighthouse  keeper,  who,  when  her  father 
became  ill,  stood  guard  over  the  ships  at  sea,  and  rennained 
at  her  post  of  duty  for  more  than  fifty  years,  the  only  woman  light- 
house keeper  in  the  service  of  her  country ;  the  tale  of  heroic  occupation. 

FAR  out  on  the  end  of  Newport's  rocky  cliffs, 
where  great  waves  break  incessantly  against 
the    rocks,    and    the    angry,    white-capped 
breakers  pound  unceasingly  against  the  wall 
of  stone,  stands  the  Lime  Rock  Lighthouse. 

Year  after  year,  night  after  night,  since  long  before 
the  war,  the  light  has  thrown  its  beacon  far  out  on  the 
sea,  a  guide  to  thousands  upon  thousands  of  mariners. 
For  over  fifty  years,  without  a  vacation,  and  with 
scarcely  a  holiday,  the  light  has  been  trimmed  and 
lighted  by  the  hand  of  a  woman.  Day  after  day  that 
same  woman  has  faithfully  watched  across  the  seas, 
where  sail-boats,  managed  by  unskilled  hands,  have 
tossed  about,  buffeted  by  wind  and  wave.  Time  after 
time  she  has  slipped  her  life-boat  from  the  rocky  cliffs 
in  all  kinds  of  weather  to  ride  to  the  rescue  of  sailors 
whose  frail  crafts  have  been  overturned.  Eighteen 
rescues  of  this  sort  stand  to  her  credit,  all  of  them  made 
at  personal  risk,  and  requiring  coolness  and  courage. 

Ida  Lewis,  *'the  Grace  Darling  of  America,"  the 
woman  credited  with  this  record,  is  the  only  woman 

—225— 


HERO  TALES 


lighthouse  keeper  in  the  United  States  service,  and  it 
was  only  by  a  sj^ecial  act  of  Congress  that  she  was  made 
eligible  for  the  appointment.  Her  service  started  when 
she  was  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl.  Her  father  was  the  keeper 
of  the  light  and  he  was  taken  ill.  The  daughter  assumed 
his  duties,  and,  ever  since,  she  has  tended  the  light  and 
watched  the  sea,  her  little  boat  always  ready  to  launch 
at  the  first  sign  of  danger. 

It  would  naturally  be  supposed  that  the  girl  and 
woman  to  accomplish  these  heavy  tasks  would  be  a 
rugged,  healthy  daughter  of  the  sea.  This  heroine, 
however,  was  never  strong  nor  rugged.  A  frail,  slender 
girl,  with  lungs  that  were  very  weak,  she  was  scarcely 
one  who  would  be  chosen  as  a  heroine  to  battle  with  the 
seas,  in  an  effort  to  save  human  life.  But  in  her  slender 
frame  there  was  the  courage  that  knew  no  fear,  and  a 
will  and  determination  that  more  than  made  up  for  all 
physical  weakness. 

She  was  more  than  a  Grace  Darling,  for  the  rescue 
work  of  the  great  English  heroine  was  performed  on 
one  sudden  impulse.  With  Ida  Lewis  it  was  continuous 
duty  that  called  her  to  imperil  her  life  for  others.  It 
was  ''all  in  the  day's  work,"  and  when  she  heard  the 
summons  she  never  faltered.  Medals  by  the  dozen  have 
been  presented  to  her  for  her  heroic  work.  The  Car- 
negie hero-list  contains  her  name,  but  to  her  it  has  been 
simply  ''Duty." 

Ida  Lewis  started  her  life-saving  career  at  the  age 
of  seventeen,  when  she  rowed  out  through  the  wind  and 
sea  and  saved  the  lives  of  four  young  men  who  were 
clinging  to  the  bottom  of  their  overturned  sailboat. 
After  this,  rescues  came  at  varied  intervals,  but  it  was 
ten  years  later  that  her  most  daring  trip  through  the 
raging  sea  was  made. 

A  stormy  March  dav  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Since 
^_226— 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  WOMAN 


sunrise  the  waves  had  been  lashed  into  a  foam  by  the 
driving  wind,  and  the  rain  had  fallen  in  torrents. 
Toward  evening  there  was  a  slight  Inll,  and  for  a  time 
the  wind  died  down,  coming  in  fitful,  treacherous  blasts 
that  made  it  almost  suicidal  to  venture  on  the  water  in 
a  small  sailboat.  In  some  manner  a  boy  of  fourteen  had 
secured  such  a  boat,  and,  during  the  temporary  lull,  he 
persuaded  two  soldiers  to  let  him  take  them  from  New- 
port to  Fort  Adams,  across  the  harbor.  Accepting  the 
boy's  word  that  he  could  manage  the  boat,  the  soldiers 
boarded  it  and  a  start  was  made. 

Half  the  distance  between  the  shore  and  the  fort  had 
been  covered,  when  suddenly  the  storm  again  came  up 
with  renewed  fury.  The  rain  fell  in  blinding  sheets  and 
the  wind  sprung  to  a  gale.  The  little  boat  was  tossed 
on  the  waves  like  an  eggshell.  Thoroughly  frightened, 
the  lad  became  confused,  pulled  his  helm  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  the  boat  turned  completely  over,  coming 
up  only  to  be  instantly  capsized  again.  The  soldiers 
and  the  boy  managed  to  secure  a  hold  on  the  keel, 
where,  for  a  long  half-hour  they  clung,  tossed  by  the 
storm  that  was  now  a  driving  gale,  and  nearly  frozen 
by  the  icy  water.  Then  the  boy  began  to  weaken.  The 
soldiers  did  what  they  could  for  him,  but  finally,  with 
a  despairing  cry,  he  loosed  his  hold,  threw  up  his  hands 
and  sank. 

In  grim  desperation,  the  soldiers  clung  to  the  boat 
for  a  short  time  longer,  then  one  of  them  reached  his 
hand  to  the  other. 

"Good-bye,  old  man,"  he  said. 

''Not  yet!"  responded  the  other.  ''Stick,  to  the 
finish. ' ' 

But  hope  was  fast  disappearing  in  the  gathering 
darkness,  when  from  the  foot  of  the  lighthouse  cliff  a 
small  rowboat  was  seen  to  start  out.    For  a  time  the 

227 


HERO  TALES 


hopes  of  the  soldiers  ran  high  as  the  little  boat  pro- 
gressed; but  when  they  could  see  the  occupants,  a  frail 
boy  (a  brother  of  Ida  Lewis)  and  a  still  frailer  girl, 
their  hopes  again  sank.  A  half-mile  stretch  of  rolling, 
seething  waves  lay  between  the  lighthouse  and  the 
capsized  boat.  The  wind  blew  a  gale  directly  across  the 
path  between  the  soldiers  and  their  rescuers. 

But  the  soldiers  knew  little  of  the  courage  in  the  two 
frail  forms  in  the  tiny  boat.  On  and  on  they  battled, 
now  pulling  one  way,  now  another,  to  avoid  the  treach- 
erous cross-currents,  but  always  they  came  nearer, 
nearer.  There  was  never  a  pause  for  rest,  never  a 
weakening  in  the  sturdy  stroke  of  the  oars.  Finally, 
the  rowboat  was  alongside  the  wrecked  craft.  As  a 
wave  swept  the  boats  together,  the  boy  reached  over 
the  side  to  grasp  one  of  the  soldiers,  when  the  quick- 
witted sister  cried, ' '  Stop,  Hosey !  Not  that  way !  We 
shall  be  capsized!" 

With  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  she  turned  the  boat's 
stern  toward  the  capsized  craft,  and,  while  she  held  it 
in  this  position  the  brother  pulled  the  two  fainting 
soldiers  in  over  the  stern.  Another  battle  with  the 
waves  on  the  return  trip,  and  the  nearly  exhausted  men 
were  landed.  Far  from  ceasing  her  exertions  here,  the 
young  woman  directed  the  care  of  the  rescued  soldiers, 
and  so  well  did  she  succeed,  that  they  were  both  able  to 
return  to  the  fort  the  following  day.  There  was  an 
effort  made  to  place  the  brave  little  woman  on  a  hero's 
pinnacle,  but  she  was  as  modest  as  she  was  brave. 

"A  hero?"  she  said,  in  mild  surprise;  *'No,  I'm  not 
a  hero ;"  and,  when  it  was  urged  that  had  she  not  gone 
to  the  rescue,  the  soldiers  would  have  drowned,  she 
simply  said,  ''I  couldn't  let  them  drown  without  trying 
to  save  them,  could  If" 

In  that  one  sentence  is  ]:>ictured  the  character  of  Ida 
—228— 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  WOMAN 


Lewis,  life-saver  and  lighthouse  keeper  of  Lime  Rock 
light.  In  more  than  a  half  century  of  service  it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  there  was  any  course  to  take  but 
one.  If  help  was  needed,  it  was  her  duty  to  furnish  it, 
and  she  could  not  understand,  why  simply  doing  her 
duty  should  be  classed  as  heroism.  But  there  were 
those  who  understood.  From  all  over  the  country  have 
come  medals  to  her  from  those  who  respond  to  true 
heroism.  She  was  placed  on  Andrew  Carnegie's  pen- 
sion list  for  life;  she  was  heralded  the  country  over  as 
"America's  Grace  Darling,"  but  even  then  she  could 
not  comprehend. 

''Why  is  it?"  she  asks  in  the  same  puzzled  way. 

She  will  never  know.  She  was  born  too  much  of  a 
hero  to  know  that  such  a  thing  as  cowardice  exists.  To 
her,  the  hero's  way  was  the  right  way — the  only  way. 


"A  blessed  task— and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun. 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth. 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

"Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall,— 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown,— 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,— 

Perishing  glories  all! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part." 


-229— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  COLLEGE  STUDENT 
ON  THE  GREAT  LAKES 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  college  student 
who,  when  he  heard  of  distress  in  a  storm  on  the  Lakes, 
left  his  studies  and   hurried  to  the  shore,  where  he  swam  to 
the  rescue  of  seventeen  lives  and  regretted  that  he  could  not  save 
more;   a  tale  of  unconscious  heroism  that  crippled  its  hero  for  life. 

IN  THE  little  town  of  Evanston,  Illinois,  twelvo 
miles  north  of  Chicago,  is  the  Northwestern 
University.  Years  ago,  in  the  early  sixties,  before 
the  small  college  had  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a 
university,  two  farmer-boys,  brothers,  had  left  their 
home  to  enter  the  institntion  to  study  for  the  ministry. 
Of  the  two  brothers,  Ed  and  Will  Spencer,  Ed  was  the 
stronger,  a  noted  swimmer,  and  a  leader  in  sports  and 
athletics. 

While  engaged  in  their  studies  on  the  morning  of 
the  eighth  of  September,  1860,  there  came  word  that 
there  was  a  wreck  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan,  at 
a  little  place  called  Winnetka,  near  Evanston.  Casting 
aside  their  books,  the  college  boys  rushed  to  the  scene. 
When  they  reached  the  shore  they  saw  a  terrible  sight. 
Lake  Michigan,  in  all  its  fury,  was  doing  its  utmost  to 
claim  as  its  own  the  Lady  Elgin  and  its  hundred  pas- 
sengers. The  angry  waves  were  dashing  over  the 
stranded  vessel,  and  the  flying  spray  drenched  the 
clinging  people  to  the  skin.  Planks  and  spars  were 
ripped  from  the  doomed  ship  and  were  thrashing  about, 

—230— 


THE  COLLEGE  STUDENT 


increasing  the  grave  danger  of  the  helpless  passengers. 

Ed  Spencer  did  not  hesitate.  Drawing  off  his 
clothes,  he  tied  a  rope  around  his  waist,  threw  the  end 
to  his  comrades,  dashed  into  the  roaring  breakers,  and 
struck  out  for  the  wrecked  vessel.  Breasting  the  on- 
coming waves,  he  sturdily  swam  out  to  the  ship. 

Each  stroke  brought  him  nearer  the  ship,  but  into 
greater  danger.  The  floating  wreckage  increased  in 
quantity  as  he  drew  nearer  his  goal,  but  he  finally 
reached  the  side  of  the  vessel  without  harm.  Taking 
one  of  the  passengers  in  his  arms,  he  gave  the  signal 
to  his  comrades  on  the  shore,  and  he  was  pulled  back 
with  his  burden  through  the  heaving  water. 

Again  he  started  for  the  fast-settling  ship,  to  be 
buffeted  by  the  waves  and  planks.  Seizing  a  woman  he 
plunged  into  the  water,  to  be  pulled  to  the  shore  a 
second  time.  Again  and  again  he  repeated  this  heroic 
act,  until  he  had  succored  ten  of  the  distressed  passen- 
gers. After  his  tenth  trip  he  seemed  completely  ex- 
hausted and  tottered  up  to  a  fire  that  the  boys  on  shore 
had  built.  The  warmth  revived  him  and  gave  him 
strength  to  plunge  into  the  sea  again  on  his  errand  of 
mercy.  Tirelessly  he  worked;  his  strength  seemed 
inexhaustible.  Five  more  times  he  swam  out  to  the 
distant  wreck  and  was  drawn  back  to  the  beach. 

Then  his  strength  seemed  utterly  gone.  He  again 
staggered  to  the  life-giving  fire,  and  stood  there,  pale, 
cold  and  trembling  from  his  awful  fight  with  the  angry 
elements.  He  could  scarcely  stand.  After  a  short  rest, 
looking  out  over  the  water  he  saw  struggling  forms  in 
the  water.    Pie  rose  to  his  feet. 

''Boys,  I  am  going  in  again.'* 

"No,  no,  Ed,"  his  friends  cried,  "your  strength  is 
all  gone.  You  cannot  swim  out  again.  You  will  only 
lose  your  own  life." 

—231— 


HERO  TALES 


The  tall,  lithe,  clean-cut,  young  hero  gazed  out  over 
the  tossing  waves.  He  saw  a  spar  rising  and  falling 
upon  the  water.    Then  he  saw  a  man's  head  above  it. 

** There  is  a  man  trying  to  save  himself,"  he  cried. 
Suddenly,  he  saw  a  woman's  head  beside  the  man's 
on  the  spar,  and  then  all  hesitation  vanished. 

"It  is  a  man  trying  to  save  his  wife,"  shouted  the 
young  hero.    "  I  '11  help  him. ' ' 

*'You  cannot;  you  are  too  weak,"  reiterated  his 
comrades. 

*'I'n  try,  anyway,"  he  declared,  and  away  he  sped 
again,  though  nearly  spent  and  benumbed  by  his  heroic 
efforts.  Summoning  his  fast  ebbing  strength  he 
struggled  on  to  the  spar.  He  was  just  in  time.  The 
grasp  of  the  two  unfortunates  who  were  clinging  to  it 
was  ^pping.  Supporting  the  woman,  he  guided  the 
spar  around  the  point  through  the  mass  of  wreckage. 

Completely  worn  out  by  his  tremendous  struggles, 
he  lay  at  last  gasping  at  the  edge  of  the  beach.  The 
waves  were  rushing  upon  him  as  if  eager  to  devour  the 
man  who  had  cheated  them  of  their  prey. 

His  brother  Will  rushed  forward,  and  dragging  him 
out  of  the  clutches  of  the  sea,  brought  him  to  the  fire. 

The  Lady  Elgin  was  now  a  complete  wreck  and  the 
work  of  rescue  was  over.  Tender  hands  carried  the 
unconscious  boy-hero  to  his  room  in  the  college. 

Eegaining  consciousness,  he  saw  his  brother  stand- 
ing by  his  bedside,  where  he  had  watched  through  the 
night. 

"Will,"  he  said,  "Do  you  think  I  did  my  best?" 

"You  saved  seventeen,"  his  brother  replied. 

* '  I  know  it.  I  know  it, ' '  he  cried, ' '  but  I  was  afraid 
I  did  not  do  my  best.  Do  you  think  I  did  my  very  best  ? ' ' 

Half  delirious  he  kept  repeating:  "I  know  it.  T 
know  it.    But  if  I  could  only  have  saved  one  more ! ' ' 

232 


THE  TALE   OF  THE   LITTLE   GENERAL 
WHO  WON  THE  LOVE  OF  HIS  ARMY 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  little  general 
to  whom  humanity  was  greater  than  victory,  to  whonn  the 
love  of  his  soldiers  was  greater  than  military  honor  or  power. 
It  is  a  tale  of  the  affection  that  led  an  army  to  triumph  and  then 
cast  down  the  man  who  obeyed  his  heart  rather  than  his  government. 

IT  WAS  in  the  days  when  the  nation  was  overcast 
with  gloom.  The  spectre  of  surrender  hovered 
over  the  national  capital  at  "Washington.  The 
great  army  of  invasion  was  hammering  at  the 
very  gates  of  the  American  capital,  and  threatening 
to  sweep  on  to  the  North  in  triumph.  Even  the  great 
cities  of  Baltimore,  Philadelphia,  and  New  York,  were 
fearing  that  they  were  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
Southern  army  of  invasion. 

It  was  in  the  year  of  1862.  The  tide  of  war  was 
threatening  to  sever  in  twain  the  great  republic  and  to 
drag  the  flag  of  liberty  in  the  dust. 

"We  must  halt  the  enemy  or  we  are  lost.*'  These 
were  the  words  on  the  lips  of  the  government  officials. 
On  this  September  day,  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
moved  along  the  banks  of  the  river  that  led  to  the 
nation's  capital.  At  the  head  of  the  lines  rode  a  little 
general  sitting  erect  on  his  horse,  and  wearing  a  broad 
felt  hat,  well  drawn  over  his  eyes.  Upon  his  head 
rested  the  blame  of  the  govermnent;  but  he  had  won 
the  love  of  every  soldier  that  had  ever  fought  under  his 

—233— 


HERO  TALES 


flag.  Months  before,  he  had  found  them  ragged  and 
hungry, — forty  thousand  men  worn  out  and  hopeless. 
His  call  for  help  had  been  heard  by  his  people  and  two 
thousand  recruits  were  marching  under  his  leadership, 
willing  and  eager  to  fight  for  the  flag. 

As  the  Autumn  sun  blazed  down  on  the  hills  on  this 
seventeenth  day  of  September,  bathing  the  fields  and 
the  river  in  its  warm  rays,  the  two  great  armies  stood 
face  to  face  at  Antietam,  arrayed  in  final  combat  for 
the  possession  of  the  nation's  capital  and  the  gates  to 
the  North.  All  day  long,  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  the 
men  of  the  blue  and  the  men  of  the  gray  struggled  for 
the  victory — the  two  greatest  fighting  bodies  that  ever 
engaged  in  mortal  conflict ;  now  fighting  for  the  bridge, 
now  for  the  road  that  led  to  the  capital,  now  on  the 
broad  expanse  of  the  meadows. 

The  clouds  of  smoke  in  the  valley  told  of  the  awful 
story.  Now  the  battle  seemed  to  be  going  to  the  South, 
now  to  the  North.  The  Union  men  who  had  tramped 
through  the  Chickahominy  swamps  and  down  the  Vir- 
ginia valley,  without  shoes  or  socks,  were  ragged  and 
bleeding.  Suddenly,  a  mighty  roar  burst  from  the 
field.  Then,  above  the  tumult,  the  Union  men  caught 
its  inspiration. 

* '  Give  ground  to  the  right ! ' ' 

The  order  thundered  along  the  lines.  A  clanking, 
frothing  squadron  of  cavalry  dashed  madly  to  the 
front.  There  was  not  a  man  in  that  great  army  that 
did  not  understand  its  meaning.  There,  before  their 
eyes  rushed  a  black  charger,  on  a  dead  run;  over  his 
flying  mane  leaned  the  little  general,  waving  his  sword 
and  urging  his  men  on  to  victory.  A  mighty  cheer 
passed  through  the  lines.  One  more  desperate  charge 
— and  the  battle  was  won.  The  hardest-fought  and  the 
bloodiest  single  day's  strife  that  ever  befell  in  the 

—234— 


THE  LITTLE  GENERAL 


Western  Hemisphere,  the  lives  of  nearly  forty  thou- 
sand men  in  blue  and  gray  being  the  price  of  the 
victory. 

The  little  general  had  saved  the  nation's  capital. 
His  duty  to  his  country  was  done.  Humanity  now 
clamored  at  his  heart. 

''Drive  the  Confederates  back  into  the  South," 
came  the  order  from  panic-stricken  Washington. 

* '  My  men  are  sick  and  hungry, ' '  answered  the  little 
general.    ''They  are  footsore  and  exhausted." 

"Annihilate  the  fleeing  foe,"  demanded  the  North. 

' '  Not  another  step  until  the  suffering  of  my  men  is 
relieved,"  was  the  decisive  reply. 

For  many  days  the  little  general  "lay  on  his  arms." 
The  demands  from  the  government  were  met  by 
counter-demands  from  the  little  general.  The  impa- 
tience of  Washington  was  aroused. 

Late  in  the  night  of  the  seventh  of  November,  the 
little  general  was  sitting  in  his  tent  writing  a  letter  to 
his  wife  in  the  distant  North.  Around  him  lay  the 
sleeping  army.    There  was  a  knock  on  the  tent  pole. 

"Come  in,"  called  the  little  general. 

Two  United  States  army  officers  entered  the  tent. 
The  faces  of  both  were  solemn. 

"Well,  general,"  said  one  of  them,  "I  think  we  had 
better  tell  at  once  the  object  of  our  visit." 

Two  letters  were  handed  to  the  little  general.  Both 
officers  intently  watching  his  face  as  he  opened  the 
letters  and  read  them.  Then,  with  a  smile,  he  turned 
to  one  of  the  officers  and  said  pleasantly:  "I  turn  the 
command  over  to  you," 

The  little  general  had  been  retired  by  his  impatient 
government,  and  before  him  stood  the  man  who  was  to 
take  the  army  from  his  hands,  under  orders  to  drive 
the  Southerners  down  the  Shenandoah  valley. 

—235— 


HERO  TALES 


It  was  not  many  hours  later.  The  little  general, 
seated  on  his  magnificent  black  charger,  at  the  head  of 
his  staff,  rode  for  the  last  time  before  his  army,  lifting 
his  cap  as  the  regimental  colors  fell  in  salute.  Line 
after  line  of  men  dropped  their  muskets  to  cheer  their 
beloved  commander.  Tears  rose  to  the  eyes  of  the 
little  general  and  every  man  in  the  whole  army  shook 
with  emotion.  Two  thousand  of  his  loyal  soldiers  were 
drawn  up  in  military  order  as  the  little  general  entered 
the  car.  A  volley  of  musketry  crashed  out  in  salute. 
Instantly  the  line  of  soldiers  broke.  Surrounding  the 
car  in  which  the  little  general  was  seated,  they  un- 
coupled it  from  the  train.  Yells  and  cries  filled  the 
air,  and  the  men  insisting  wildly  that  he  should  not 
leave  them.  The  bitterest  imprecations  were  shouted 
against  those  who  had  deprived  them  of  their  beloved 
commander.  The  excitement  was  intense.  One  word, 
one  look  of  encouragement,  the  raising  of  a  finger, 
would  have  been  the  signal  for  a  revolt. 

On  the  platform  of  the  car  he  stood  to  deliver  his 
farewell  message.  He  raised  his  hand.  Silence  rested 
on  the  impassioned  throng.  He  spoke  slowly  and  ap- 
pealingly :  * '  Stand  by  Burnside  as  you  have  stood  by 
me,  and  all  will  be  well ! ' ' 

Subdued,  the  loyal  soldiers,  with  manly  tears 
streaming  down  their  faces,  rolled  the  car  back,  and 
recoupled  it  to  the  train,  and  the  little  general  had 
passed  from  them  forever. 

In  all  that  these  brave  men  did,  in  all  that  they 
suffered,  though  great  were  their  deeds,  and  unspeak- 
able their  sufferings,  never,  perhaps,  was  their  de- 
votion and  loyalty  more  nobly  proven  than  by  their 
instant  obedience  to  this  request  from  the  commander 
whom  they  had  learned  to  love — General  George  B. 
McClellan. 

—236— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  COMMANDER  WHO 
SAVED  THE  GREAT  LAKES 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  commander 
who  built  his  own  ships  and  then  sailed  them  to  victory; 
the  tale  of  a  man's  triumph  over  mighty  difficulties  that  the  flag 
of  his   country  might  wave  over  the    great  waters  of   inland  com- 
merce, on  the  shores  of  which  have  since  risen  great  cities  of  civilizat  on. 

IT  WAS  the  tenth  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of 
1813.  The  war  was  on  between  England  and  the 
yonng  republic  of  the  United  States.  The  little 
fleet  of  American  warships,  but  nine  in  all,  were 
lying  in  the  harbor  of  Presque  Isle,  on  Lake  Erie.  Out- 
side, in  the  lake,  were  the  six  English  fighting  ships, 
but  greater  in  strength  and  number  of  men  than  were 
the  American  ships,  and  with  guns  heavier  and  of 
longer  range. 

The  commander  of  the  little  American  fleet  had 
come  from  Newport,  in  Ehode  Island,  and  had  built 
his  own  navy  in  six  months'  time,  to  help  in  the  defence 
of  his  country.  The  English,  in  control  of  Lake  Erie, 
threatened  to  occupy  the  great  Northwest  country,  and 
this  brave  officer  had  been  sent  without  ships  to  drive 
them  out. 

At  noon  on  this  September  day,  the  sailors  on  the 
American  ships  were  hurriedly  making  ready  for 
battle.  The  British,  seeing  the  preparations  of  the 
enemy,  hastily  cleared  ship  for  action. 

Out  of  the  harbor,  the  American  fleet  sailed.    The 
—237— 


HERO  TALES 


flagship  Lawrence,  with  the  brave  captain,  was  in  the 
lead,  closely  followed  by  two  small  gunboats. 

The  English  ships  slowly  drew  nearer  the  three 
boats,  and  soon  were  within  range  with  their  big  guns. 
There  was  a  flash  of  flame,  and  a  shot  from  the  leading 
English  ship  hurtled  over  the  water  but  fell  short. 
Another  shot  followed  as  the  ships  approached.  This 
time  the  shell  came  nearer. 

The  Americans  did  not  reply.  Their  guns  would 
not  carry  as  far  as  the  British  cannon.  Their  only  hope 
was  to  get  near  to  the  foe  and  fight  at  close  range.  Un- 
daunted by  the  fearful  hail  of  shot,  they  gallantly  sailed 
on.  Splinters  from  the  wooden  sides  of  the  ships  were 
flying  in  every  direction  as  the  shot  of  the  English 
found  their  mark. 

Suddenly,  from  the  side  of  the  Lawrence,  a  sheet  of 
flame  burst  forth.  With  a  shudder,  the  leading  English 
ship  careened,  telling  of  the  accuracy  of  the  American 
aim.  Broadside  after  broadside  was  exchanged  as  the 
ships  closed  in.  The  din  was  terrific; — the  heavy  ex- 
plosions of  the  death-dealing  guns,  the  shrieks  of  the 
wounded  men,  and  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  officers,  direct- 
ing the  ships  and  fire. 

In  the  midst  of  the  carnage  the  Laivrence,  the  center 
of  the  English  fire,  was  returning  shot  for  shot.  For 
two  long  hours  the  brave  commander  on  the  flagship 
stood  his  ground,  fighting  desperately,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  the  two  little  gunboats,  against  the  entire 
English  fleet.  The  rest  of  the  American  fleet  stood  oi¥ 
and  vainly  tried  to  hurl  their  shot  into  the  fray,  but  the 
range  was  too  great  and  they  were  not  of  much  as- 
sistance. The  Lawrence  was  suffering  terribly  from 
the  gruelling  fire  of  the  English  ships.  She  was  riddled 
by  the  shells  and  seemed  about  to  sink. 

The  commander  signalled  for  the  Niagara  to  draw 
—238— 


THE  COMMANDER 


near,  and  calmly  taking  his  colors,  he  jumped  into  a 
small  boat  and  was  rowed  across  the  water  through  the 
fearful  rain  of  shot  and  shell.  Arriving  on  the  Niagara, 
he  angrily  ordered  the  rest  of  the  skulking  American 
ships  to  the  firing  line. 

Undaunted  by  the  loss  of  his  flagship,  he  proceeded 
to  close  in.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he  had  completely 
annihilated  the  English  ships. 

The  carnage  was  fearful;  the  English  ships  were 
shot  to  pieces  and  were  in  a  sinking  condition.  The 
British  lost  about  one-third  of  their  entire  fighting 
force.  The  Araerican  loss  was  about  the  same,  but 
they  won  the  battle,  forever  ending  the  power  of  the 
English  on  the  Great  Lakes  and  reclaiming  the  great 
Northwest  for  the  United  States.  Few  naval  battles 
have  had  such  momentous  results.  The  victory  prac- 
tically ended  the  war  and  drove  the  English  out  of 
American  territory. 

"We  have  met  the  enemy,  and  they  are  ours,"  was 
the  brief  but  sufficient  report  from  the  brave  naval 
officer  to  the  American  people, — a  saying  that  has  since 
become  famous  in  American  history.  No  victory  was 
ever  more  entirely  due  to  the  genius  and  bravery  of  one 
man,  for  he  practically  fought  the  entire  British  fleet 
single-handed,  and  without  the  support  of  more  than 
two  or  three  of  his  ships. 

As  the  truth  became  known,  the  great  commander 
became  the  idol  of  the  American  people,  and  the  man  of 
the  hour.  Congress,  recognizing  his  great  work,  gave 
him  a  gold  medal  and  promoted  him  to  the  rank  of 
commodore. 

After  the  war,  this  American  naval  hero  cruised 
through  the  Mediterranean  sea,  performing  many  feats 
of  daring  courage.  In  the  year  1819,  he  sailed  for  South 
America.     While  cruising  up  the  Orinoco  river  he  was 

—239— 


HERO  TALES 


stricken  down  by  yellow  fever,  and  died  at  Port  of 
Spain,  in  Trinidad,  before  Ms  loving  men  could  bring 
him  back  to  his  native  land.  He  was  therefore  buried 
on  a  foreign  shore.  In  the  year  1826,  his  remains  were 
brought  to  the  land  he  loved,  and  a  monument  to-day 
stands  there  in  memory  of  the  brave  and  beloved  hero 
of  Lake  Erie — Oliver  Hazard  Perry. 

On  the  beautiful  public  square  of  the  great  city  of 
Cleveland,  Ohio,  near  the  spot  where  Perry  won  his 
victory,  stands  another  noble  monument  in  his  honor. 


"Again  Columbia's  stripes,  unfnrl'd, 
Have  testified  before  the  world, 

How  brave  are  those  who  wear  them; 
The  foe  has  now  been  taught  again 
His  streamers  cannot  shade  the  main 

While  Yankees  live  to  share  them. 

"The  victory  gained,  we  count  the  cost, 
We    mourn,    indeed,   a  hero   lost! 

Who  nobly  fell,  we  know,  sirs; 
Who  left  a  living  name  behind, 

Much  honored  by  the  foe,   sirs. 

"Huzza;  once  more  for  Yankee  skill! 
The  brave  are  very  generous  still! 
But  teach   the   foes   submission." 


—240- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE   DYING  WARRIOR 
WHO  STORMED  A  CITADEL 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  warrior 
who,  while  dying  of  a  fatal  disease,  led  his  army  against 
the  stronghold  of  the  French  in  America  and  planted  the  English 
flag    on    its    rocky  cliffs,   winning   one    of  the   greatest  victories    in 
the  world's  warfare  and   establishing   the    English  tongue  in  America. 

IT  WAS  at  the  time  when  England  and  France  were 
struggling  for  the  mastery  of  North  America. 
The  war  of  American  independence  had  not  be- 
gun. Englishmen,  Scotchmen  and  Irishmen  in 
Great  Britain,  and  their  descendants  and  relatives  in 
America,  were  living  under  one  government,  and  were 
united  in  their  attempt  to  destroy  the  power  of  France. 
At  this  time,  in  1758,  the  stronghold  of  France  on 
the  Western  Hemisphere  was  the  city  of  Quebec,  the 
capital  of  Canada,  and  it  must  be  captured  if  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  was  to  conquer  the  new  world.  A  remark- 
able statesman,  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  was 
prime  minister  of  Great  Britain,  and  he  had  succeeded 
in  rousing  the  enthusiasm  and  confidence  of  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking people  everywhere.  The  enemies  of 
England  were  being  repulsed.  Clive  was  successful  in 
India  and  had  established  British  power  by  the  battle 
of  Plassey.  The  Dutch  were  driven  back.  The  Spanish 
were  losing  ground. 

In  America,  France  still  retained  Canada,  which 
Pitt  determined  to  wrest  from  her  at  any  cost.    He 

—241— 


HERO  TALES 


looked  alioiit  him  for  the  right  man  to  accomplish  the 
work. 

A  young  infantry-officer,  slim,  red-haired,  of  a  some- 
what nmisual  personal  appearance,  had  been  attracting 
considerable  attention  by  his  brilliant  exploits.  He  had 
been  in  the  English  army  since  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and,  in  1757,  had  shown  such  bravery  and  ability  that 
the  prime  minister  gave  him  command  of  an  expedi- 
tion against  the  French  fortress  at  Louisburg,  which 
he  captured.  This  led  to  his  appointment  as  com- 
mander of  the  expedition  against  Quebec — in  reality 
the  gigantic  task  of  saving  North  America  to  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking race. 

It  was  the  twenty- seventh  day  of  June,  in  1759. 
The  young  brigadier-general,  only  thirty-two  years  of 
age,  landed  his  army  of  9,000  men  on  the  Isle  of  Or- 
leans, four  miles  below  the  French  capital  of  Quebec, 
which  had  one  of  the  strongest  natural  fortifications  in 
the  world,  defended  by  more  than  16,000  French  sol- 
diers and  Indians,  with  a  hundred  cannon. 

The  towering  capital  of  France  in  the  New  World, 
protected  by  the  mighty  St.  Lawrence  on  one  side  and 
the  River  St.  Charles  on  the  other,  frowned  down  from 
the  height  of  more  than  300  feet,  on  the  English  forces 
below.  The  great  city,  built  on  solid  rock,  with  its  walls 
as  steep  as  those  of  a  Norman  castle,  seemed  impreg- 
nable. The  French  believed  it  impossible  for  any  army 
to  scale  them. 

For  two  months  and  a  half,  the  besieging  English 
failed  to  make  any  impression  on  the  stronghold  of  the 
enemy.  Their  attacks  were  repulsed  by  the  deadly  dis- 
charge of  the  cannon,  and,  with  disease  as  an  ally,  the 
English  forces  were  seriously  weakened. 

The  daring  young  general  was  himself  besieged  by 
an  enemy  greater  than  that  of  all  the  armies  of  the 

—242— 


THE  DYING  WARRIOR 


world  combined.    His  own  life  was  ebbing  away  with  a 
fatal  disease — he  was  fighting  death. 

"It  is  hopeless,"  said  one  of  his  officers.  ''Quebec 
can  never  be  taken. ' ' 

The  young  general  surveyed  the  precipitous  bluff 
that  challenged  his  courage.  His  sharp  eyes  discovered 
a  narrow  path  winding  among  the  rocks  to  the  summit. 

"I  will  lead  my  army  up  that  ascent,"  he  resolved, 
*'or  die  in  the  attempt." 

It  was  a  beautiful  starlight  night  on  the  twelfth  of 
September,  in  1759.  A  fleet  of  small  boats  glided  down 
the  river  with  the  ebb  tide,  and  5,000  soldiers  soon 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  great  rocky  heights,  ready  to 
decide  the  destiny  of  a  continent. 

The  pallid-faced  young  general  inspected  his  troops. 
His  countenance  told  its  own  tale,  and  on  his  lips  was 
the  line  of  the  poet  Gray: 

"The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  liis  officers,  "I  woujld 
rather  have  written  'An  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard' than  to  have  the  glory  of  beating  the  French 
to-morrow." 

A  narrow  path,  hardly  wide  enough  for  two  men 
side  by  side,  led  from  the  edge  of  the  river  to  the  plains 
above.  A  French  sentry  called  out  a  challenge  into  the 
night.  An  English  officer,  who  had  fought  in  the  wars 
against  the  French  and  knew  their  tongue,  gave  quick 
reply.  The  sentry,  believing  that  the  advancing  column 
was  his  own  troops,  awaited  its  approach  and  was 
seized  and  held  prisoner,  thus  warding  off  the  danger 
of  alarm. 

"When  the  morning  sun  fell  on  the  Plains  of  Abra- 
ham, the  brilliant  uniforms  of  5,000  English  soldiers 
flashed  in  the  light.  The  French  commander  was  so 
astonished  that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  own  eyes. 

—243— 


HERO  TALES 


The  English  army  had  climbed  the  steep  cliffs  and 
scaled  the  "impregnable"  heights.  The  audacity  of 
the  movement  chagrined  the  great  French  commander. 
A  rain  of  fire  fell  on  the  English  lines.  With  calm  self- 
possession  the  yonng  general  held  his  troops  in  reserve. 

"Not  a  single  shot  must  be  fired,"  he  ordered,  "un- 
til the  enemy  is  within  thirty  yards." 

On  came  the  French  soldiers  in  defiant  bravery. 
The  English  battle-lines  wavered. 

Crash!  Crash!  A  thundering  volley  of  musketry 
broke  from  the  English  guns.  The  French  lines 
wavered  and  heaps  of  dead  lay  upon  the  ground.  An- 
other volley ;  then  another  still  echoed  along  the  plains. 

"Bayonets!  Charge!"  ordered  the  English  com- 
mander. 

The  blades  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  There  was  a 
clash  of  steel.  The  French  lines  fell  back.  In  the 
front  of  the  onslaught  stood  the  young  English  com- 
mander, leading  the  grenadiers.  A  shot  shattered  his 
wrist.  He  grasped  at  his  handkerchief  and  tightened 
it  about  the  bleeding  wound.  Another  shot  struck  him 
in  the  groin.  "Without  faltering,  he  urged  on  his 
troops  in  a  terrific  onslaught.  There  was  a  crash  of 
musketry.  The  young  general  staggered.  His  sword 
fell  from  his  hands.  His  face  grew  deathly  pale,  and 
he  sank  to  the  ground  unconscious,  his  hands  clasped 
to  his  bleeding  breast. 

' '  They  run !  See  how  they  run ! ' '  rang  through  the 
lines. 

The  young  English  general,  as  if  imbued  with  new 
life,  struggled  to  his  elbow. 

"Who  run?"  he  demanded,  like  one  aroused  from 
deep  sleep. 

"The  enemy,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "They  give 
way  everywhere." 

—244— 


THE  DYING  WARRIOR 


Pie  brushed  his  dazed  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Cut  off  their  retreat,"  he  ordered.  "Do  not  let 
the  enemy  escape." 

"The  order  has  been  obeyed,"  reported  an  officer, 
a  moment  later. 

* '  Now  God  be  praised, ' '  murmured  the  failing  voice, 
I  will  die  in  peace. ' ' 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  immortal  James  Wolfe,  the 
conquerer  of  Quebec,  who  died  at  the  moment  of  his 
great  victory,  in  the  consciousness  of  an  heroic  task 
well  done.  The  English  flag  was  planted  on  the  citadel 
of  Quebec,  where  it  still  remains,  and  North  America 
was  saved  for  English  civilization. 


"Now  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  thistle  and  rose. 
And  the  Star- Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with  these, 

A  message  to  friend  and  foes. 
Wherever  the  sails  of  peace  are  seen  and  the  war  wind  blows. 

"A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake. 

For  wherever  we  come,  we  twain. 
The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain, 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land  and  we  are  lords  of  the 
main. 

"Yes,  this  is  the  voice  on  the  bluff  March  gale, 

'We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  wornout  tale. 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong. 
And  our  friendship  shall  last  as  long  as  love  doth  last  and  be 
stronger  than  death  is  strong.'  " 


—245- 


THE   TALE   OF   THE   SAINTLY  FRIEND 
WHO  LOVED  HUMANITY 


This  is  tiie  tale  of  a  Friend 
wliose  heroic  l<indness  and  innplicit  faith  in 
humanity  led  her  through  dangers  that  threatened  her  life. 
It  is  the  tale  of  a  people  who  count  truth  greater  than  riches  and 
whose  creed  is  to  do  unto  others  as  you  would  have  them  do  unto  you. 

IT  AVAS  when  America  had  just  become  a  nation. 
The  struggles  of  the  Eevolution  were  over.  Tens 
of  thousands  of  lives  had  been  placed  on  the  altar 
of  liberty,  and  men  were  now  settling  down  to  the 
great  struggle — the  struggle  of  everyday  life,  with  its 
hourly  demands  upon  courage.  The  new  nation  had 
shown  to  the  world  that  it  was  the  land  of  patriots  in 
war ;  and  now  it  was  calling  to  duty  its  patriots  of  peace. 
The  year  was  that  of  1793.  In  a  pious  family  on  the 
Nantucket  coast  in  Massachusetts,  was  a  little  girl. 
Her  parents  were  Quakers — children  of  God — and 
from  their  lips  there  never  fell  an  unldnd  word  or  com- 
plaint. Their  people  had  been  the  first  whalers  of  the 
Atlantic.  They  built  the  first  lighthouse  that  cast  its 
radiance  out  upon  the  seas,  as  a  shining  beacon  to  ships 
in  distress,  or  to  point  their  way  through  shoals  of  rocks 
to  safety.  They  had  become  the  first  friends  of  the  red 
man  and  had  taken  him  to  their  hearts  as  a  poor  brother, 
teaching  him  to  plough,  to  sow  the  land,  and  to  reap  the 
riches  of  nature. 

It  was  in  such  a  home  as  this  that  little  Lucretia 
—246— 


THE  SAINTLY  FRIEND 


Coffin  formed  her  first  impressions  of  life;  and,  when 
twelve  years  of  age,  she  was  taken  to  the  city  of  Boston, 
the  center,  then  as  now,  of  New  England's  learning  and 
culture. 

"It  is  against  the  principles  of  Christ  to  shed 
blood,"  she  had  heard  her  mother  say  many  times.  So 
the  stories  of  Bunker  Hill  and  Lexington,  which  were 
dear  to  patriotic  Boston,  caused  her  to  shudder. 

"Quakers  are  cowards,"  was  the  children's  retort. 

"We  are  not,"  she  would  answer,  bravely.  "We 
will  go  to  war  and  care  for  the  wounded,  but  we  will  not 
take  our  brother's  life." 

As  Lucretia  grew  to  girlhood,  she  became  impressed 
with  the  thought  that  honor  was  the  world's  greatest 
possession.  One  day  she  was  knitting.  In  the  con- 
versation of  those  about  her,  she  heard  some  slighting 
word  spoken  of  womanhood.  Quick  as  a  flash,  she 
arose  and  closed  the  lips  of  the  speaker,  who  sank  away 
in  shame,  while  the  girl  went  on  with  her  knitting. 

"Happiness  is  but  the  outcome  of  right  and  duty," 
she  would  tell  her  young  friends,  when  they  complained 
of  being  discontented.  "The  greatest  wealth  is  peace 
of  mind. ' ' 

The  second  war  with  Great  Britain  broke  out. 
Again  the  American  flag  waved  triumphant,  and  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  were  carried  on  to  the  seas. 

But  Lucretia  grieved  that  the  price  of  progress 
should  be  paid  in  human  lives.  When  she  was  twenty- 
five  years  of  age,  she  decided  to  consecrate  her  life  to 
humanity,  and  entered  the  ministry  of  the  Friends  in 
historic  old  Philadelphia,  under  the  very  shadow  of  the 
hall  where  American  independence  had  been  born. 

Within  the  heart  of  this  birthplace  of  liberty  were 
men  and  women  whose  bodies  and  lives  were  bought  and 
sold  like  chattel. 

—247— 


HERO  TALES 


'^This  must  not  be,"  she  exclaimed,  **iii  Christian 
America ! ' ' 

With  her  friends,  she  held  meetings  and  organized 
societies  to  help  and  encourage  the  slave.  Public 
opinion  was  strongly  against  her.  The  negro  had  been 
the  white  man's  property  since  the  foundation  of 
America.     Slavery  was  an  established  system  of  trade. 

"What  right  has  this  woman  to  interfere T'  This 
was  the  protest  that  passed  from  the  coast  of  New; 
England  to  the  farthest  borders  of  the  frontier.  "The 
negro  was  born  for  servitude.     It  was  God's  intent." 

The  peaceful  woman,  whose  only  interest  was 
humanity,  went  calmly  on  her  way,  as  her  sense  of 
duty  led  her.  She  was  refused  a  hall  in  which  to  hold 
her  meetings,  and  so — she  built  one,  and  dedicated  it  to 
freedom.  A  storm  of  public  opinion  was  directed 
against  the  new  hall.  Not  since  the  days  of  the  struggle 
for  independence  had  the  people  been  aroused  to 
greater  excitement.  Shortly  after  Lucretia  Coffin  had 
consecrated  her  life  to  humanity,  she  had  married  and 
had  become  Mrs.  Mott.  Her  name  was  now  heralded 
through  the  states,  for  her  theories  threatened  the 
"property  interests"  of  the  nation. 

It  was  three  days  after  the  dedication  of  the  hall  of 
freedom,  which  she  called  "Pennsylvania  Hall."  A 
crowd  of  excited  men  were  gathered  in  the  streets.  The 
agitation  increased  as  the  evening  wore  on.  The 
mayor  was  notified,  but  did  not  respond.  Larger  and 
more  menacing  grew  the  crowd,  until  it  became  a 
mighty  mob.  A  stone  was  hurled  through  the  street. 
There  was  the  crash  of  breaking  glass.  The  entrance 
door  to  the  hall  creaked  and  groaned.  Then  it  gave 
way,  and  the  mob  rushed  into  the  auditorium. 

"Fire!  Fire!"  they  shouted,  and  the  anti-slavery 
hall  was  in  flames.    Even  the  firemen,  who  answered 

—248— 


THE  SAINTLY  FRIEND 


the  alarm,  stood  by  while  it  burned,  and  protected  only 
the  surrounding  buildings. 

As  the  flames  were  leaping  into  the  night-sky  from 
the  new  anti-slavery  hall,  the  crowd  howled  with  glee. 

'  *  Come  on !  Come  on ! "  was  the  shout.  ' '  Let  us  do 
the  job  right,  now  it  is  begun ! ' ' 

Expecting  that  their  home  might  be  attacked,  the 
Motts  had  removed  their  children  to  a  neighbor's  house, 
but  Lucretia  Mott  and  her  husband  refused  to  flee,  and 
sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  little  home  as  though  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  guests. 

The  mob  rushed  down  Arch  Street  to  Ninth,  where 
stood  the  modest  dwelling.  Just  as  they  were  approach- 
ing the  house,  a  cry  was  heard. 

' '  On  to  Mott 's !    On  to  Mott 's ! " 

A  youth  took  up  the  leadership  directly  in  front  of 
the  house,  and  fled  down  the  street,  the  mob  following 
at  his  heels,  yelling  wildly.  The  loyal  lad  was  a  Quaker 
and  knew  the  Motts  -,  his  quick  wit  had  saved  their  home, 
the  mob  burning  another  building  farther  along  the 
street,  under  the  belief  that  it  was  the  Mott  home. 

Several  years  later,  Lucretia  Mott  was  attending 
the  annual  meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society  in  New 
York.  It  had  no  sooner  assembled  than  a  mob  gath- 
ered, and,  crowding  about  the  edifice,  it  threw  stones, 
hooting  and  yelling  at  the  people  within,  and  even 
attempting  to  throw  vitriol  upon  them.  The  company 
was  calm  and  unafraid,  but  had  to  abandon  its  business 
and  adjourn.  On  opening  the  door,  a  terrible  scene — 
a  fearful  bedlam — ^was  presented.  The  speaker  and 
members  of  the  society  were  buffeted  and  roughly 
handled  by  the  mob,  and  it  looked  as  if  a  tragedy  were 
at  hand.  Lucretia  Mott,  unmoved  in  that  awful  ordeal, 
stood  calm  and  serene;  not  a  word,  expression,  or 
gesture  betraying  that  she  knew  the  emotion  of  fear. 

—249— 


HERO  TALES 


"Here,  Joseph,"  she  said  to  her  escort,  ''will  you 
care  for  these  two  women  friends?  They  seem 
worried." 

"But  who  will  care  for  thee,  Lucretia?"  he  asked. 

Readiness  is  often  the  characteristic  of  great  souls. 
It  was  of  Lucretia  Mott.  Calmly  she  looked  about  her ; 
nearby  stood  a  beetle-browed  ruffian,  apparently  some 
sort  of  a  leader  or  hero  of  his  followers — certainly  one 
of  the  roughest  of  them  all. 

Going  up  to  him,  Lucretia  Mott  said  in  her  ordinary 
tones : 

"My  friend,  will  thee  kindly  give  me  thy  arm 
through  the  crowd?" 

The  fellow's  manhood  was  touched,  and  he  helped 
the  good  Quaker  woman  through  the  mob. 

Lucretia  Mott's  life  had  been  saved  by  her  heroic 
calmness  and  her  implicit  faith  in  humanity,  which 
alone  should  be  a  lesson  to  generations  to  come. 

It  was  largely  through  the  calm  and  determined 
bearing  of  the  Quakers  that  public  opinion  was  suffi- 
ciently aroused  against  slavery  to  effect  its  final  down- 
fall; and  among  the  names  of  all  of  that  noble  band, 
none  shines  more  brightly  on  the  page  of  history  than 
that  of  Lucretia  Mott. 


"The  peace  of  God  was  on  her  face, 
Her  eyes  were  sweet  aucl  calm, 
And  when  you  heard  her  earnest  voice 
It  sounded  like  a  psalm. 

"In  all  the  land  they  loved  her  well; 
From  country  and  from  town 
Came  many  a  heart  for  counsel. 
And  many  a  soul  cast  down. 

"Her  hands  had  fed  the  hungry  poor 

With  blessing  and  with  bread; 
Her  face  was  like  a  comforting 
From  out  the  Gospel  read." 

—250— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  CONQUEROR  WHO 
CARRIED  THE  FLAG  INTO  MEXICO 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  conqueror 
who  marched  triumphantly  through  old  Mexico  and  unfurled 
the  American  Flag  in  the  proud  Spanish  Capital,  where  it  waved 
over  the  palace  of  Montezumas  and  proclaimed  to  the  world  that 
the    Republic   of  the   United   States  was  to   dominate  the   Continent. 

THE  day  was  the  ninth  of  March ;  the  year  1847. 
The  American  army,  twelve  thousand  strong, 
stood  before  Vera  Cruz,  in  old  Mexico,  under 
command   of   a   dignified   general   who   was 
devoted  to  the  display  and  pomp  of  war. 

The  territory  of  Texas  had  revolted  from  the  rule 
of  Mexico  and  called  upon  the  United  States  for  assist- 
ance in  her  struggle  for  liberty.  The  American  army 
had  been  dispatched  into  the  disputed  region  and  had 
forced  its  way  through  the  hostile  country  by  brilliant 
charges  against  the  Mexicans,  until  now  in  all  its  splen- 
dor, it  held  the  ancient  land  of  the  Aztecs. 

A  short  distance  above  the  city  of  Vera  Cruz  was 
the  impregnably  fortified  Castle  of  San  Juan  de  Ulloa. 
For  four  days  the  Americans  bombarded  the  stub- 
bornly defended  stronghold,  raining  storms  of  shell  into 
the  fort.  The  Mexicans,  unable  to  endure  the  terrible 
fire,  surrendered,  and  the  city  of  Vera  Cruz  fell. 

The  march  now  began  against  the  Mexican  capital. 
Through  the  dense  tangle  of  the  forests,  the  army 
toiled,  cutting  down  trees  and  underbrush,  and  drag- 

—251— 


HERO  TALES 


ging  their  cannon  over  lofty  hills,  until  they  reached  the 
mountain-pass  of  Cerro  Gordo.  Here  the  Mexicans 
had  thrown  up  fortifications,  to  hold  the  American 
army.  The  position  seemed  unassailable.  But  the 
dignified  general  determined  not  to  be  stopped  and  sent 
troops  to  cut  their  way  around  the  base  of  the  mountain. 
Up  its  side  the  brave  soldiers  hauled  their  cannon  until 
they  had  reached  the  rear  of  the  enemy. 

The  Mexicans  felt  secure  in  their  stronghold,  but  a 
plunging  fire  upon  their  rear  and  front,  soon  changed 
their  serenity  into  panic,  and  they  fled  from  their  posi- 
tion in  terror.  This  disastrous  defeat  struck  fear  into 
their  hearts  and  when  the  invading  army  reached  the 
city  of  Puebla  it  met  with  no  resistance  at  all. 

The  dignity  and  military  punctiliousness  of  the 
American  commander  had  earned  him  the  nickname 
' '  Old  Fuss  and  Feathers. ' '  But  his  impressive  stature, 
strict  discipline,  and  adherence  to  military  etiquette 
were  carrying  triumph  in  their  path.  He  finally  rested 
his  army  at  Puebla  for  nearly  three  months,  awaiting 
reinforcements  for  the  final  march  on  the  great  Mexican 
capital. 

On  the  seventh  day  of  August,  the  American  gen- 
eral, with  eleven  thousand  soldiers,  advanced.  After 
three  days  of  fearful  struggle  under  the  fierce  sun, 
through  the  almost  impassable  forest  paths,  they 
reached  the  mountain  range  surrounding  the  beautiful 
valley  of  Mexico.  It  was  a  magnificent  sight,— that 
brilliant  Mexican  capital,  in  the  center  of  the  rich  and 
fertile  valley,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  towering, 
snow-clad  peaks,  even  in  the  tropical  heat  of  summer. 

The  entrance  to  the  city  was  guarded  by  thirty 
thousand  Mexican  soldiers  and  well  garrisoned  forts. 
Turning  to  the  south,  the  American  commander  led  his 
men  through  the  forests,  by  devious  and  difficult  paths, 

—252— 


THE  CONQUEROR 


until  he  reached  the  intrenched  camp  of  Contreras, 
The  darkness  was  so  intense  that  the  men  had  to  keep 
hold  of  each  other  to  avoid  being  separated.  In  the 
morning  the  Americans  completely  routed  the  Mexi- 
cans. They  were  now  within  fourteen  miles  of  the  goal 
that  they  had  so  gallantly  fought  to  reach.  The  same 
day  they  advanced  on  the  strongly  fortified  Churu- 
busco,  garrisoned  by  twenty-five  thousand. 

For  many  hours  the  brave  Americans  fought 
superior  numbers,  with  varying  fortunes.  It  seemed 
at  one  instant  as  if  they  were  defeated.  Then  in  a 
brilliant  rally,  and  with  an  irresistible  charge,  they 
drove  the  Mexicans  out  in  complete  rout. 

Cheer  after  cheer  rent  the  air.  There — over  the 
walls  of  the  ancient  capital — appeared  a  white  flag  of 
armistice.  Under  this  protecting  flag  the  Americans 
rested,  believing  there  need  be  no  further  bloodshed. 
An  outpost  rushed  into  the  American  camp. 

"The  treacherous  Mexicans  are  taking  advantage 
of  the  truce  to  strengthen  their  works,"  he  reported. 
The  dignity  of  the  American  commander  burned  in^o 
fury. 

"Drive   them   into   the   mountains,"   he   ordered. 

In  the  face  of  the  enraged  Americans'  fearful  fire 
the  strong  fortifications  fell  one  after  the  other.  The 
capital  city  was  conquered.  American  valor  was  vic- 
torious.    The  war  was  over. 

On  the  fourteenth  of  September,  the  conquering 
military  commander  triumphantly  entered  the  city,  and 
soon  the  American  flag  was  flying  over  the  palace  of 
the  Montezumas. 

For  these  brilliant  achievements,  he  was  honored 
with  the  rank  of  lieutenant-general,  and  high  in  the 
annals  of  military  daring  was  enrolled  the  name  of 
Winfield  Scott. 

—253— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    MECHANIC    WHO 
FORCED  THE  WORLD  TO  TAKE  HEED 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  mechanic 
who  brought  new  tidings  to  a  world  that  would 
not  listen  and  then  forced  the  nations  to  heed  his  message. 
It  is  a  tale    of  the   struggle   to    rise    above    poverty,    of   the   self 
reliance  and  the  resolute  purpose  that  wins  all  the  great  battles  of  life. 

IT  "WAS  on  the  thirty-first  day  of  July,  in  the  year 
of   1803,   that   this   boy  was   born   in   Sweden. 
Struggling  through  youth  in  the  direst  poverty, 
in  the  effort  to  acquire  an  education,  he  soon 
found  that  his  life-work  was  to  be  mechanics.    When 
twenty-six  years  of  age  he  made  a  locomotive  that  had 
the  then  terrific  speed  of  fifty  miles  an  hour. 

At  this  time  the  methods  of  fire-fighting  were 
primitive  and  many  disastrous  fires  caused  great  loss 
of  property.  The  young  inventor  turned  his  attention 
to  fire-engines  and  soon  had  one  completed  that  was  an 
instantaneous  success.  It  was  taken  around  Europe 
and  placed  on  exhibition  in  the  largest  cities. 

Invention  after  invention  followed  in  rapid  succes- 
sion, and  the  young  inventor  determined  to  emigrate  to 
the  United  States.  He  arrived  in  New  York  on  the 
second  day  of  November,  in  the  year  1839.  The  United 
States  navy  had  no  steam  vessels  then,  for,  though 
two  vessels  had  been  equipped,  they  had  never  been  put 
into  practical  operation. 

Thus,  the  United  States  navy  was  an  open  field  for 
—254— 


THE  MECHANIC 


the  talents  of  the  young  inventor.  Its  officers  were  op- 
posed to  the  introduction  of  steam,  and  he  was  forced 
to  wait  three  long  years ;  but,  through  the  assistance  of 
influential  friends  at  Washington,  the  brilliant  mechanic 
received  permission  to  build  a  vessel.  The  usual  delay 
attending  Government  business  occurred,  and  the  in- 
ventor was  forced  to  wait  for  still  three  years  more 
before  beginning  his  task.  The  result  of  his  genius  was 
the  Princeton,  the  first  screw-propelling  ship  in  the 
country. 

Never  at  rest,  he  next  turned  to  the  armament  of 
ships-of-war,  and  soon  had  a  cannon  of  wrought  iron 
mounted  on  the  Princeton.  Always  busy,  with  ideas 
crowding  on  ideas,  he  now  revolutionized  the  fighting 
ships  of  the  American  navy.  His  ideas  often  seemed 
wild  and  impracticable  to  outsiders,  but  he  labored  on 
in  the  face  of  ridicule  and  opposition,  and  perfected 
many  valuable  improvements  and  inventions,  for  which 
the  American  people  will  ever  be  grateful. 

It  was  in  1862,  during  the  struggle  between  the 
North  and  South,  that  the  Swedish  inventor  reached  the 
climax  of  his  career  and  brought  forth  the  most  famous 
of  all  his  creations.  The  Confederate  navy  was  de- 
cisively defeating  the  Union  navy  in  terrific  engage- 
ments. The  Government  at  Washington  had  repeatedly 
declined  to  build  iron-clad  vessels,  and,  when  the  in- 
ventor offered  his  model  of  a  new  style  of  fighting  ship, 
he  was  ridiculed  and  turned  away. 

''I'll  build  you  an  iron-clad,"  he  said  to  the  govern- 
ment officials  ' '  that  will  withstand  the  fire  of  any  ship 
on  the  sea." 

''You  may  try  it  at  your  own  risk,"  replied  the  offi- 
cials. "We  cannot  promise  to  pay  you  unless  your  idea 
proves  practical." 

One  hundred  days  later,  a  strange  craft,  half-ship 
—255— 


HERO  TALES 


and  half-raft,  slipped  from  her  moorings  at  Greenpoint, 
Long  Island.  It  was  a  weird-looking  fighting  ship, 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  but  hardly  any 
part  of  the  vessel  rose  much  above  the  water;  in  the 
center  of  the  deck  there  was  a  round  turret,  with  two 
port-holes,  through  which  the  muzzles  of  cannons  could 
be  seen.  Altogether,  the  little  vessel  looked  like  *'a 
cheese-box  on  a  raft." 

On  the  ninth  of  March,  in  1862,  this  strange  craft 
ploughed  the  water  of  Hampton  Koads.  In  the  dim 
light  of  early  morning,  she  crept  up  beside  the  Union 
warship,  the  Minnesota.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
appeared  the  dread  of  the  Union  navy,  the  Confederate 
ram,  Merrimac,  bearing  directly  for  the  Minnesota. 
Suddenly,  from  behind  the  big  frigate,  the  little  Moni- 
tor dashed  forward  and  engaged  the  Confederate  ram 
in  battle.  The  Confederate  ship,  with  contempt  for  the 
little  "cheese  box,"  fired  a  steel-tipped  shell  at  the 
impudent  little  vessel.  Great  was  their  amazement 
when  the  heavy  shell  glanced  from  the  turret  of  the 
Monitor  and  plunged  into  the  sea.  Shell  after  shell  was 
fired  at  the  daring  little  vessel,  only  to  bound  off  into 
the  water.  For  six  hours  the  little  Monitor  withstood 
the  terrific  fire  of  the  Merrimac.  Finally,  the  Merrimac, 
damaged  and  leaking,  withdrew  and  fled  to  Norfolk, 
leaving  the  field  to  the  unharmed  little  Monitor. 

The  "foolish  notions"  of  the  "impractical"  in- 
ventor had  saved  the  day  in  a  critical  naval  battle.  The 
marvelous  little  iron-clad  Monitor  was  master  of  the 
sea.  The  navies  of  the  world  were  first  amazed  and 
then  convinced.  An  inventor  in  America  had  revolu- 
tionized ocean-warfare,  and  his  name — John  Ericsson, 
— was  on  the  lips  of  the  world. 


--256— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    MAJOR-GENERAL 
WHO  FOUGHT  AS  A  COMMON  SOLDIER 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  major-general 
who  stood  in  battle-line  as  a  private  and 

willingly  gave  all  the  glory  to  his  fellow  officers.     It  is  a  tale 
of  the  unselfishness  and  fidelity  of  a  man  who  gave   his  life  in 
the  first  organized   battle  of  the  struggle  for  American   Independence. 

IT  WAS  the  seventeenth  day  of  June,  in  the  year 
1775.  The  colonists  had  received  warning  that 
the  British,  located  in  Boston,  intended  fortifying 
Bunker  Hill,  a  position  commanding  the  city  of 
Boston,  and  the  surrounding  country.  The  American 
patriots  determined  that  this  should  not  be  done.  The 
scene  was  impressive  as  the  gray-haired  president  of 
Harvard  College  called  upon  God  for  protection  as  the 
farmer-soldiers  marched  from  Charlestown  to  Breed's 
Hill,  a  more  commanding  site  than  Bunker  Hill.  In 
the  moonlight  the  men  worked  hurriedly,  throwing  up 
entrenchments,  but  so  silently  that  the  British  did  not 
hear  them,  although  the  patriots  were  so  near  that  they 
could  hear  the  sentinel's,  "All's  well,"  from  the  King's 
army. 

The  dawn  was  approaching  before  the  British  were 
aware  that  they  had  been  out-maneuvered.  Hastily 
forming  ranks,  they  prepared  to  drive  the  colonists 
from  the  hill.  The  English  general  crossed  the  river 
with  three  thousand  men.  Across  the  river,  in  the 
city  of  Boston,  the  anxious  mothers  and  wives  and 

—257— 


HERO  TALES 


children  were  on  house-tops  watching  the  preparation 
for  battle. 

The  signal  to  advance  passed  along  the  British 
lines.  Up  the  hill  the  red-coated  soldiers  marched  in 
brilliant  battle-array,  with  flags  flying  and  drums  beat- 
ing. 

Behind  the  breastworks  the  farmer-patriots  lay, 
awaiting  the  command  to  fire.  On  came  the  King's 
soldiers  until  they  were  within  ten  rods  of  the  re- 
doubts.   The  patriots  were  impatient  to  begin  the  fray. 

''Fire  when  you  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes,"  was 
the  order  that  ran  down  the  lines. 

A  sheet  of  flame  and  a  storm  of  bullets  greeted  the 
British  soldiers  as  they  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
The  havoc  was  terrible;  whole  platoons  of  English 
soldiers  fell.  Again  from  the  breastworks  came  a  vol- 
ley of  musketry.  The  British,  unable  to  endure  the  fear- 
ful rain  of  bullets,  fled  down  the  hill,  and  out  of  range. 

The  smoke  of  burning  Charlestown  covered  their 
retreat  and  gave  them  help  to  reform  their  disordered 
ranks.  Once  more  they  attempted  the  ascent  of  the 
bullet-swept  hill.  As  they  came  on,  they  were  met  with 
a  fiercer  fire.  Again  they  fled  down  the  hill.  The 
British,  chagrined  by  the  repulse,  sent  for  reinforce- 
ments. With  the  larger  army  they  started  for  the 
third  time  up  the  slope,  now  to  be  met  with  a  feeble 
fire  in  resistance. 

The  ammunition  of  the  colonists  had  given  out. 
Over  the  redoubt,  the  red-coated  soldiers  dashed  to  be 
met  with  a  hail  of  stones  and  clubbed  with  muskets. 
The  fighting  was  furious.  In  the  midst  of  a  struggling 
body  of  British  soldiers  the  schoolmaster-soldier  was 
desperately  warding  off  the  bayonets  thrust  at  him.  A 
British  soldier  who  knew  the  patriot  to  be  a  major- 
general,  despite  his  clothes,  seized  a  musket  and  with 

—258— 


THE  MAJOR-GENERAL 


deliberate  aim  fired.  The  schoolmaster  reeled  and  fell 
to  the  ground — dead. 

The  colonists,  without  powder  or  bullets,  were  forced 
to  evacuate  their  position,  driven  out  by  the  superior 
numbers  of  the  King's  men.  America  had  lost  one  of 
her  truest  sons,  who,  refusing  to  wait  for  his  commis- 
sion as  a  general,  had  taken  up  arms  in  the  ranks  in  the 
cause  of  the  great  principle. 

An  English  commander,  when  he  heard  of  the  death 
of  his  worthy  foe,  paid  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the 
brave  patriot,  saying:  "He  was  worth  five  hundred 
ordinary  rebels." 

And  in  all  the  annals  of  battle  there  is  not  a  more 
unselfish  example  of  heroic  fidelity  to  country  than 
that  of  the  schoolmaster  of  Bunker  Hill — General 
Joseph  Warren. 


"Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it,— ye  who  will. 

"Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you!  they're  a-fire! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it!— From  the  vale 
On  they  come!— And  will  ye  quail? — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be! 

"In  the  God  of  battle  trust! 
Die  we  may,— and  die  we  must; 
But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed. 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell!" 

—259— 


THE  TALE  OF  A  WOMAN'S  COMPASSION 
IN  THE  WORLD  OF  DARKNESS 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  homeless  woman 
who  devoted  her  life  to  the  world's  most  unfortunate  and 
brought  light  into  their  realm  of  dismal  darkness;  who  appealed 
in   the  compassions   of   her   heart  to   humanity  to   lend    a    helping 
hand  to  the  suffering,  and  created  a  new  era  in  the  world's  civilization. 

AGIEL  of  fourteen  years,   she  found  herself 
facing  one  of  the  world's  greatest  problems 
— self-support,  and  in  addition,  she  must  also 
support  two  younger  brothers. 
* '  I  know  I  can  earn  a  living, ' '  she  said, ' '  I  can  teach 
the  children  that  are  younger  than  I.    I  will  open  a 
private  school." 

The  child  school-teacher  stood  before  her  little  pu- 
pils with  a  resoluteness  of  purpose  that  inspired  them. 
To  give  herself  an  older  appearance,  she  lengthened  her 
skirts  and  her  sleeves.  Although  scarcely  older  than 
the  children  that  she  taught,  her  seriousness  com- 
manded their  respect  and  affection. 

At  nineteen,  this  child-teacher  was  the  principal  of 
a  boarding-school  in  which  were  the  daughters  of  many 
prominent  men  of  the  time.  Her  strong  moral  in- 
fluence had  brought  her  reputation  and  success. 

The  early  burdens  of  life  wore  upon  her.  Her  blue 
eyes,  their  warmth  chilled  by  gray,  as  though  sorrow 
had  early  crept  into  her  sunny  skies,  showed  failing 
health,  and  those  about  her  became  greatly  worried. 

—260— 


A  WOMAN'S  COMPASSION 


''I  do  not  fear  to  die,"  she  said,  ''but  I  cannot  bear 
the  thought  of  leaving  my  little  brothers ;  while  I  live," 
she  added,  "I  will  make  myself  useful  to  humanity." 

As  she  looked  about  her,  she  found  many  who  were 
in  deeper  trouble  than  herself;  some  of  them  with 
burdens  almost  too  great  to  bear.  She  found  that 
there  were  greater  afflictions  in  the  world  than  physical 
sickness;  there  was  moral  sickness — more  hideous  in 
its  torment  and  suffering  than  any  bodily  disease. 

It  was  in  the  year  1841.  This  young  woman  was 
visiting  the  unfortunate  in  the  House  of  Correction  at 
East  Cambridge,  in  Massachusetts,  when  the  moans  of 
the  wretched  came  to  her  ears.  Imprisoned  in  a  room, 
in  filth  and  unspeakable  horrors,  were  human  beings 
who  had  lost  their  reason,  many  of  them  through  way- 
wardness and  dissipation.  Her  young  heart  went  out 
in  compassion  for  them  in  their  misery,  and  in  that 
compassion  burned  the  fires  of  justice. 

"It  is  true  that  they  have  lost  their  reason,"  she 
admitted,  ''and  it  may  be  the  penalty  of  their  own 
wrong-doing,  but  they  are  human  beings,  they  are  our 
f ellowmen,  and  we  must  protect  them. ' ' 

"This  is  my  mission  in  life,"  she  decided,  and  with 
the  decision,  she  began  an  investigation  of  the  treatment 
of  the  mentally  afflicted.  She  found  that  civilization 
looked  upon  the  loss  of  reason  as  a  curse,  and  upon  its 
victims  as  wild  beasts,  to  be  chained  and  bound  in 
irons.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  sights  which  she  did  not 
know  existed  in  a  Christian  world.  She  saw  men  and 
women  in  cages,  closets,  stalls  and  pens.  Sometimes 
they  were  naked.  Often  they  were  cruelly  beaten  into 
submission.  The  gentle  voice  of  this  woman  cried  out 
in  protest. 

Hostility  and  abuse  were  the  response  which  came 
back  to  her. 

—261— 


HERO  TALES 


"It  is  all  humbug,"  declared  the  political  leaders. 

A  legislator,  after  attacking  her  statements  on  the 
floor  of  the  House,  declared  that  he  and  some  of  his 
committee  would  go  to  her  and  silence  her  forever. 
As  they  entered  her  home,  they  were  met  by  the  gentle 
face  and  voice  of  this  woman. 

"We  came  to  inquire  about  these  allegations  against 
our  institutions,"  the  leader  said  coldly. 

The  woman,  smiling,  told  him  of  her  experiences. 
She  described  the  misery  and  fearful  sufferings  that 
she  had  witnessed.  As  she  appealed  to  the  hearts  of 
her  visitors,  the  legislator,  after  sitting  spellbound  for 
an  hour  and  a  half,  arose  and  stepping  to  her  side, 
exclaimed : 

' '  Madame,  I  bid  you  good  night.  I  do  not  want,  for 
my  part,  to  hear  anything  more.  The  others  can  stay 
if  they  wish  to.  I  am  convinced.  You  have  conquered 
me  out  and  out.  If  you'll  come  to  the  House  and  talk 
there  as  you've  done  here,  no  man  that  isn't  a  brute 
can  withstand  you.  When  a  man's  convinced,  that's 
enough.    The  Lord  bless  you. ' ' 

The  heart  of  the  nation  was  aroused.  Thousands 
came  to  her  support,  while  countless  others  denounced 
her.  She  became  a  political  issue  in  Massachusetts, 
and  the  legislature,  after  a  heated  discussion,  passed 
an  appropriation  to  remove  the  insane  from  the  jails 
to  institutions  where  they  could  receive  mental  treat- 
ment. 

The  life-work  of  the  woman  was  now  just  begun. 
She  went  from  Massachusetts  to  Rhode  Island,  and  on 
and  on  until  she  had  visited  all  the  states  East  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Every\\diere  her  eyes  rested  upon 
the  same  inhuman  conditions  that  she  had  found  in 
Massachusetts.  In  the  treatment  of  its  mental  unfor- 
tunates Christianity  had  turned  pagan,  civilization  had 

—262— 


A  WOMAN'S  COMPASSION 


become  savage.  She  visited  the  prisons  and  alms- 
houses. Her  appeals  to  humanity  were  overpowering. 
As  she  journeyed  through  the  country,  she  wore  a 
simple  dress  of  plain  gray  for  traveling,  and  appeared 
in  severe  black  on  public  occasions,  frequently  wearing 
a  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 

One  day,  while  in  Ehode  Island,  she  went  to  see  a 
millionaire  who  had  no  special  fondness  for  benevo- 
lence. He  tried  to  baffle  her  with  commonplace  gener- 
alities, which  she  met  with  kindness.  At  last,  rising 
with  commanding  dignity,  she  announced  the  purpose 
of  her  interview. 

The  financier,  hardened  though  he  was  by  a  life  de- 
voted to  mere  money-getting,  listened.  Her  low-voiced 
eloquence  appealed  to  him. 

''God  will  not  hold  us  guiltless  for  the  neglect  of 
one  of  the  least  of  his  creatures,"  she  declared. 

''But  what  would  you  have  me  do?"  inquired  the 
rich  man. 

"Give  fifty  thousand  dollars  toward  a  new  asylum 
for  the  insane, ' '  she  answered. 

' '  I  will  do  it, ' '  he  replied. 

Some  months  later  this  woman,  now  a  broken-down 
invalid,  weakened  by  her  travels  and  labors,  stood  be- 
fore Congress.  For  six  years  she  pleaded  with  the 
government  for  better  laws  for  the  insane  and  the  de- 
fective, and  at  last  her  wisdom  and  humanity  con- 
quered the  hearts  and  minds  of  the  statesmen. 

It  was  in  1854.  A  bill  before  Congress  was  for  an 
appropriation  of  12,225,000  acres  of  public  lands — 
about  20,000  square  miles — to  be  apportioned  among 
the  states  for  the  care  of  the  insane,  allowing  the  odd 
225,000  acres  for  the  deaf  and  dumb.  The  bill  swept 
the  Senate  by  more  than  a  two-thirds  majority,  and 
passed  the  House  by  a  plurality  of  fourteen. 

—263— 


HERO  TALES 


The  woman  wept  with  thanksgiving. 

''I  must  resist  the  deep  sympathies  of  my  heart," 
said  President  Pierce,  as  he  returned  the  bill  to  the 
Senate  without  his  signature  and  bearing  his  veto. 

The  worn  woman  was  crushed  by  this  defeat,  and 
she  was  taken  across  the  seas  to  recover  her  lost 
energies  and  strength.  But  her  life-mission  weighed 
upon  her,  and,  inunediately  upon  her  arrival  in  Scot- 
land, she  began  an  agitation  there  for  the  remodelling 
of  its  lunacy  laws.  The  august  officials  resented  the 
intrusion.  She  turned  toward  London  and  there  found 
that  the  Lord  Provost  of  Edinburgh  had  hurried  to 
the  capital  to  oppose  her. 

Against  political  intrigue,  she  secured  the  sym- 
pathy of  Lord  Shaftsbury,  the  Duke  of  Argyle  and  Sir 
George  Gray,  the  home  secretary,  and,  within  two 
months,  by  appointment  of  Queen  Victoria,  secured 
two  commissions  of  investigation,  the  result  of  which 
caused  parliament  to  rise  to  the  defense  of  the  mental 
sufferers  and  to  revise  its  laws  on  modern  principles  of 
Christian  brotherhood. 

The  conquest  of  civilization  by  an  invalid  American 
woman  was  now  well  begun.  When  she  entered  Italy, 
in  1856,  she  found  the  prisons  and  hospitals  of  ancient 
Eome  in  confusion  and  disorder.  A  few  days  later  she 
stood  before  Pope  Pius  IX,  and  appealed  to  his  bene- 
ficence. He  expressed  himself  as  surprised  and 
shocked  at  the  details  of  her  recital,  and,  on  the  follow- 
ing day  he  fell  unawares  on  the  officials  and  personally 
investigated  the  conditions  in  the  prisons,  which  he 
found  to  be  only  too  true.  The  result  was  the  purchase 
of  land  and  the  establishment  of  a  retreat  for  the  men- 
tally afflicted  of  the  great  metropolis  of  the  ancient 
civilization. 

Cries  of  distress  from  all  parts  of  Europe  called 
—264— 


A  WOMAN'S  COMPASSION 


this  American  woman  from  Rome.  In  Athens,  Con- 
stantinople, Moscow,  St,  Petersburg,  Vienna,  Paris, 
Florence — everywhere  she  carried  the  new  light  of 
science  to  those  who  were  suffering  under  the  shadow 
of  a  great  affliction. 

The  gloom  of  a  great  civil  war  fell  upon  her  beloved 
America.  And  as  the  cannon  boomed,  under  the  flag 
that  she  loved,  she  carried  the  compassion  of  her  heart 
to  the  wounded  and  dying  and  offered  her  invalid  life 
to  her  country  as  a  superintendent  of  nurses.  It  was 
through  her  efforts  that  many  monuments  were  erected 
to  the  Union  soldiers  who  had  fallen  on  the  field  or 
perished  in  the  prison  pens  or  hospital  wards.  It  was 
she  who  sent  to  the  coast  station,  the  life-saving  ap- 
pliances and  libraries  for  the  rescuers  of  the  ship- 
wrecked. It  was  this  woman  who  brought  to  the  army 
and  navy  compassion  for  the  heroes  who  had  become 
insane  in  the  service.  It  was  this  good  Samaritan 
whose  name  ran  through  every  state  in  the  Union, 
across  Canada,  and  around  the  world — appealing  to 
the  universal  heart  of  humanity. 

And  yet,  this  great  woman,  whose  soul  was  over- 
flowing with  love  for  all  humanity,  was  herself  a  home- 
less wanderer.  This  life  spent  for  the  happiness  of 
others  was  poured  out  in  loneliness  and  suffering. 

One  day  a  white-haired  lady  of  about  eighty  years 
of  age,  plainly  dressed,  and  bent  by  the  weight  of  years, 
entered  the  insane  asylum  at  Trenton,  in  New  Jersey. 

"This  is  my  first-born  child,"  she  said.  ''It  is  here 
that  I  want  to  die." 

Five  years  later  this  beneficent  life  passed  away 
so  quietly  that  the  world  hardly  knew  that  she  was 
gone.  Those  for  whom  she  had  labored  did  not  know, 
and  could  not  love.  Over  her  lifeless  form  they  could 
not  grieve ;  they  were  in  darkness  that  knows  no  grief. 

—265— 


HERO  TALES 


But  there  is  One  who  knows  and  One  who  loves,  and 
to  those  all-embracing  arms  she  passed  with  the  tender 
words :  ' '  Come,  ye  blessed  of  my  Father,  inherit  the 
kingdom  prepared  for  you  from  the  foundation  of  the 
world,  for  I  was  hungry  and  ye  gave  me  meat ;  I  was 
thirsty  and  ye  gave  me  drink ;  I  was  a  stranger  and  ye 
took  me  in;  naked  and  ye  clothed  me;  sick  and  in 
prison  and  ye  visited  me." 

And  as  the  light  of  His  face  falls  upon  her,  we  can 
hear  the  echo  of  the  voice  of  Him  who  gave  his  life  to 
save  humanity:  ''Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it 
unto  me." 

This  is  a  story  of  the  heroism  of  peace — the  story 
of  Dorothea  Lynde  Dix,  one  of  the  noblest  of  American 
women. 


"The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speak  out  upon  your  side. 

"The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 

Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 
Liglit,  Truth,  and  Love;— your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought." 


—266- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WOUNDED  CAPTAIN 
WHO  WOULD  NOT  GIVE  UP  HIS  SHIP 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  wounded  captain 
who  resented  the  insult  to  his  flag  and  ordered  his 
men  not  to  surrender  when  he  lay  dying  on  the  deck.     It  is  a 
tale  of  the  dauntless  spirit  that  won  for  the  American  flag  the  ad- 
miration of  the  world  and  made  it  respected  wherever  it  sailed  the  seas. 

IT  WAS  in  March  in  the  year  of  1813.     The  United 
States  and  England  were  engaged  in  a  struggle 
for  the  mastery  of  the  seas.     A  doughty  sea- 
fighter  was  sent  to  Boston  to  take  command  of 
the  ship  Chesapeake,  after  his  brilliant  victory  over  the 
English  ship-of-war,  the  Peacock,  in  South  American 
waters. 

He  found  a  mutinous  crew  and  dissatisfied  officers, 
grumbling  over  prize-money  that  they  thought  should 
have  been  paid  to  them.  He  labored  long  and  patiently 
to  quiet  and  appease  them,  and  to  overcome  their  incom- 
petency, for  most  of  them  had  but  little  experience  in 
warfare. 

It  was  upon  a  day  in  May  that  the  English  warship, 
Shannon,  appeared  off  the  harbor  of  Boston  and  dared 
the  Americans  to  come  out  and  engage  in  battle.  The 
American  commander  could  not  stand  the  taunts  of 
the  British,  and,  despite  his  mutinous  crew  and  poor 
officers,  he  prepared  to  take  up  the  challenge. 

On  the  first  of  June,  the  American  fighting  ship, 
Chesapeake,  moved  out  of  the  harbor  to  battle  with  the 

—267— 


HERO  TALES 


Shannon.  The  two  vessels  were  apparently  evenly 
matched;  but  the  English  ship  was  commanded  by  a 
daring  captain,  who  for  seven  years  had  sailed  with  the 
same  crew  under  his  direct  command,  and  they  were 
highly  trained  in  naval  warfare.  The  American  ship 
was  commanded  by  a  very  brave  and  efficient  officer,  but 
his  men  were  insubordinate  and  untrained. 

The  Shannon  moved  towards  the  American  ship, 
and,  when  within  range  of  her  heavy  guns,  opened  the 
engagement  with  her  thundering  broadsides.  The 
Chesapeake  was  damaged  by  the  first  fire,  but  still  kept 
on  her  course. 

Again  the  Shannon  hurled  her  fearful  charges  of 
shot  and  shell.  The  Chesapeake  reeled  and  began  to 
fall  away,  drifting  helplessly,  stern  foremost,  toward 
the  English  ship,  which  continued  to  belch  forth  its 
terrible  broadsides  into  the  crippled  ship. 

The  British  sailors  were  in  the  mast-tops  with  their 
muskets,  and  the  gunners  were  behind  the  cannon, 
sweeping  the  decks  of  the  poor  Chesapeake.  The 
Americans  could  not  reply,  because  of  the  position  of 
their  drifting  vessel.  As  the  two  ships  came  together, 
the  gallant  American  captain,  ordered  his  men  to  board 
the  English  vessel  and  fight  for  their  lives. 

The  combat  was  fearful;  wounded  men  lay  every- 
where on  the  decks,  while  the  hanging  rigging  brushed 
the  sailors  off  their  feet  at  every  lurch  of  the  stricken 
ship.  Placing  himself  at  the  head  of  his  men,  the  brave 
captain  led  the  desperate  attempt  to  board  the  Shannon. 
While  climbing  over  the  side  to  the  British  ship,  he  was 
struck  by  a  bullet  and  fell,  mortally  wounded.  Tender 
hands  carried  the  wounded  officer  to  the  cock-pit  and 
laid  him  with  his  injured  sailors. 

The  furious  fire  of  the  English  again  swept  the  deck, 
and  the  American  sailors  were  forced  to  seek  shelter 

—268— 


THE  WOUNDED  CAPTAIN 


from  the  pitiless  onslaught.  The  English  captain 
ordered  his  men  to  board  the  American  frigate,  and,  at 
the  head  of  fifty  sailors,  he  led  the  way.  Over  the  side 
they  clambered  onto  the  deserted  deck.  Rushing  across 
the  ship,  they  were  met  with  the  fire  of  thirty  Americans 
who  had  rallied  at  the  forecastle.  Thirty-seven  Eng- 
lishmen fell  to  the  deck,  dead ;  but  the  Americans  were 
finally  overwhelmed  by  reinforcements,  which  the  cap- 
tain of  the  Peacock  had  succeeded  in  obtaining.  In  the 
midst  of  the  hand-to-hand  combat,  the  dying  captain  of 
the  American  vessel  shouted  heroically:  *' Don't  give 
up  the  ship.  Blow  her  up. ' '  But  the  English,  even  as 
he  closed  his  eyes  in  stupor,  had  assumed  command  of 
the  Chesapeake,  and  the  tattered  American  flag  was 
hauled  down. 

The  intrepid  spirit  of  the  American  captain  had  led 
him  into  a  hopeless  engagement  with  a  superior  fighting 
force,  and,  in  spite  of  his  courageous  stand,  the  Chesa- 
peake, as  an  English  prize,  was  carried  off  to  Halifax. 

Four  days  later,  he  passed  away,  but  the  name  of 
Captain  James  Lawrence  will  live  in  American 
annals  and  will  serve  forever  as  an  inspiration  to  all 
generations. 


'Through  the  clangor  of  the  cannon, 
Through  the  combat's  wreck  and  reek, 

Answer  to  th'  o'erinastering  Shannon 
Thunders   from   the   Chesapeake: 

Gallant  Lawrence,  wounded,  dying. 
Speaks   with   still  unconquered   lips 
Ere  the  bitter  draught  he   drinks: 

Keep  the  flag  flying! 
Fight  her  till  she  strikes  or  sitiks! 
Don't  give  vp  the  ship!" 


—269— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WOODSMAN  WHO 
SAVED  A  GREAT  SEAPORT 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  woodsman 
who  knew  only  what  nature  had  taught  hinn,  but  won  his 
way  from  the  forests  through  the  battles  of  civilization  to  the 
highest  honor  within  the  gift  of  the  American  people.     It  is  a  tale 
that  throbs  with  the  spirit  of  American  pluck  and  American  opportunity. 

IT  WAS  the  eighth  day  of  January,  1815.  Great 
Britain  and  the  new  republic  of  the  United  States 
were  engaged  in  their  struggle  for  supremacy. 
The  tide  of  the  war  had  swept  into  the  South,  and 
the  two  armies  were  face  to  face  at  New  Orleans,  in 
Louisiana.  The  American  army  of  five  thousand  men, 
most  of  whom  had  never  been  in  battle  before,  were 
defending  the  city  against  the  attack  of  the  British  with 
fen  thousand  tried  and  trained  soldiers. 

The  American  officer  had  fortified  the  city  with 
bales  of  cotton,  thrown  up  as  breast-works,  behind 
which  his  riflemen  crouched,  ready  for  the  foe.  This 
was  to  be  their  first  actual  battle,  and  the  Americans 
watched  for  the  first  signs  of  the  approach  of  the 
British  with  sturdy  courage. 

Early  in  the  morning,  through  the  river  mists,  the 
brawny  commander,  tall  and  rough,  espied  the  ap- 
proaching Englishmen,  and,  when  they  were  within 
range,  he  calmly  gave  the  order  to  his  artillerymen  to 
fire.  The  silence  of  the  morning  hours  was  shattered 
by  the  heavy  discharge.    Through  the  cannon  smoke, 

—270— 


THE  WOODSMAN 


the  advancing  English  were  seen  to  waver,  bnt  quickly 
rallied  under  the  sharp  commands  of  their  officers. 

Again,  the  American  battery  hurled  its  fearful 
charge  at  the  brave  men,  and,  though  the  shell  tore 
their  lines  apart,  they  quickly  closed  ranks  and  came  on 
with  a  rush.  Now  they  were  within  range  of  the  Ken- 
tucky and  Tennessee  riflemen,  who  rained  a  storm  of 
bullets  into  the  ranks  of  the  advancing  men.  The 
British  soldiers,  unable  to  endure  the  destructive  fire, 
broke  and  ran  for  shelter. 

The  Americans  had  not  escaped  unscathed  the  bul- 
lets of  the  English.  Little  spurts  of  fire  were  shooting 
up  from  their  embankment.  The  entire  line  of  cotton 
bales  burst  into  flames,  ignited  by  the  exploding  English 
shells.  The  Americans  tore  at  the  blazing  pile  of  cotton, 
trying  to  push  it  into  the  river  before  the  British  should 
return  to  the  attack.  With  poles  and  rifles  they  dug 
and  tore  and  pushed  until  their  fortification  plunged 
into  the  river.  The  blinding  clouds  of  steam  obscured 
the  sight  of  the  approaching  English.  With  smarting 
eyes  the  Americans  tried  to  pierce  the  veil  of  black 
smoke  that  hung  between  them  and  the  rapidly  ad- 
vancing lines  of  English,  which  had  been  greatly  in- 
creased by  reinforcements. 

The  wind  from  the  river  was  thinning  the  black 
curtain,  and  finally  the  Americans  were  able  to  see  the 
enemy,  now  close  at  hand  and  rushing  to  the  attack. 
With  redoubled  fury,  the  Americans  shot  at  the  British 
troops,  but  the  enemy  did  not  falter,  though  they  fell 
by  hundreds. 

The  grim  American  commander,  mounted  on  his 
war-horse,  ' '  Old  Whitey, ' '  rode  up  and  down  his  lines 
and  calmly  directed  the  fire.  ''Old  Hickory,"  he  was 
affectionately  called  by  his  soldiers,  and  now  he  looked, 
indeed,  as  strong  as  the  trunk  of  a  tree.    Disregarding 

—271— 


HERO  TALES 


the  danger  to  himself,  the  grim  fighter  gave  his  orders 
and  encouraged  his  men. 

Up  to  the  very  earthworks  of  the  Americans  came 
tlie  brave  English,  their  gallant  general  in  the  lead. 
Then,  just  as  they  were  about  to  rush  upon  the  em- 
bankment, they  seemed  to  halt.  Their  intrepid  com- 
mander had  been  mortally  wounded.  The  loss  of  their 
leader  threw  the  ranks  into  confusion.  Turning,  they 
fled,  casting  aside  their  arms  as  they  ran. 

The  battle  was  over.  The  determined  men,  under 
* '  Old  Hickory, ' '  had  held  the  American  flag  over  New 
Orleans.  On  the  streets  of  the  Southern  city,  along  the 
outskirts,  lay  two  thousand  wounded  and  dead — but 
among  them  were  only  eight  Americans. 

The  dauntless  commander  had  won  against  over- 
whelming odds,  and  was  now  the  hero  of  the  war.  Un- 
educated and  without  the  advantage  of  gentle  birth, 
his  grim  determination  captured  the  American  heart. 
And  ''Old  Hickory,"  as  rough  and  as  unyielding  as 
the  name  his  men  had  given  him,  yet  with  the  common 
sense  that  neither  money  nor  education  can  buy,  was 
lifted  by  the  American  people  into  the  Presidency  of 
the  United  States — this  son  of  nature,  Andrew  Jackson. 


"Hall,  sons  of  generous  valor, 
Who  now  embattled   stand, 
To  wield  the  brand  of  strife  and  blood, 
For  Freedom  and  the  land. 

"And  hail  to  him,  your  laurelled  chief. 
Around  whose  trophied  name 
A  nation's  gratitude  has  twined 
The  wreath  of  deathless  fame." 


272 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  PLOUGHMAN  WHO 
HEARD  THE  ALARM  OF  HIS  COUNTRY 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  ploughman 
who,  when  he  heard  that  his  country  was  in  clanger, 
left  his  plough  in  the  fields  and  nnounted  his  fastest  horse  to 
gallop  to  the  battle-front.    It  is  the  tale  of  the  stout  hearts  and  the 
stalwart  patriotisnn  of  the  nnen  who  laid  the  foundation  of  the  republic. 

IT  "WAS  in  the  days  of  the  American  Kevolution. 
The  battle  of  Lexington  on  the  nineteenth  of 
April,  1775,  and  the  news  of  the  death  of  seven 
Americans  on  the  battlefield  spread  over  the 
country  like  wildfire.  The  British,  who  had  wantonly 
set  fire  to  the  stores  of  the  colonists,  devastating  every- 
thing in  their  path,  were  now  alarmed  by  the  first  resist- 
ance of  the  patriots,  and  were  hastily  retreating. 

In  the  fields  near  Pomfret,  in  Connecticut,  an  old 
man,  without  a  thought  of  war,  was  peacefully  plough- 
ing the  land  to  plant  corn,  and  urging  forward  his  slow- 
moving  farm  horses. 

From  a  passing  messenger  came  the  words :  ''The 
British  are  on  the  march.  In  a  battle  they  have  killed 
seven  Americans!" 

The  farmer  listened  to  the  words.  Then  he  calmly 
unharnessed  his  horses,  and  without  changing  his  work- 
ing clothes,  mounted  one  of  his  horses  and  set  off  along 
the  country  turnpike  for  the  distant  city.  Through 
small  settlements  he  dashed,  his  horse  covered  with 
foam.    All  along  the  way  he  met  other  men  hastening 

—273— 


HERO  TALES 


to  the  scene,  armed  with  old  muskets,  some  with  scythes, 
and  others  with  pitchforks.  The  motley  crowd  hurried 
onward  with  their  crude  weapons,  determination  writ- 
ten on  their  faces. 

For  eighteen  hours  the  horseman  kept  his  saddle 
and  rode  the  hundred  miles  into  Boston.  Through  the 
streets  he  clattered,  and  was  soon  standing  before  the 
American  officer  ready  to  enlist  in  the  defense  of  his 
country.  His  experience  as  an  Indian  fighter,  and  the 
bravery  and  ability  he  displayed,  won  for  him  a  posi- 
tion as  Brigadier-General,  and  a  few  weeks  later  this 
ploughman  was  leading  the  Connecticut  troops  in  the 
defense  of  Bunker  Hill. 

He  fought  the  British  with  gallantry  and  became 
such  a  menace  to  them  that  they  offered  him  a  position 
as  major-general  and  a  large  sum  of  money  if  he  would 
desert  his  country  and  join  their  army.  With  scorn  and 
rage  at  the  insult,  he  spurned  the  offer  and  fought  with 
redoubled  fury. 

It  was  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  August.  The 
English  were  landing  their  troops  on  Long  Island  to 
attack  the  Americans  garrisoned  in  a  fort  at  Brooklyn. 
The  defenders  of  the  fort  were  greatly  outnumbered 
but  determined  to  hold  their  ground.  The  English 
general  divided  his  force  into  three  divisions.  Under 
cover  of  the  confusion  of  the  advance,  one  division 
slipped  to  the  rear  of  the  fort,  unseen  by  the  Ameri- 
cans. The  two  divisions  in  front  opened  fire,  and  their 
screaming  shells  crashed  into  the  fort.  Answering 
sheets  of  flame  burst  from  the  American  guns,  sending 
their  message  of  death  into  the  ranks  of  the  oncoming 
English. 

Suddenly,  from  the  rear  of  the  fort,  there  was  the 
cry  of  the  third  division.  The  Americans  turned  in 
dismay.     There,  in  command,  stood  the  ploughman  of 

—274— 


THE  PLOUGHMAN 


Bunker  Hill.  Desperately,  he  tried  to  drive  out  the  in- 
vaders, only  to  have  the  English  in  front  pour  into  the 
fort.  The  Americans  were  in  a  critical  position.  Their 
only  hope  was  in  escape.  In  perfect  formation  they 
slowly  retreated  amid  the  rain  of  bullets.  The  ranks 
were  riddled  and  cut  down ;  but  still  in  good  order  they 
moved,  under  the  inspiring  courage  of  their  leader. 
Out  of  the  four  thousand  defenders  of  the  fort,  one 
thousand  were  lost.  Many  of  them  were  taken  captive 
and  imprisoned  in  the  ill-famed  Sugar  House  by  the 
British,  where  they  suffered  unspeakable  misery  and 
privations — but  three  thousand  American  patriots 
were  saved  by  the  masterful  discipline  of  the  plough- 
man who  had  answered  the  nation's  first  alarm — Israel 
Putnam. 


'There  rang  a  cry  through  the  camp,  with  its  word  upon  rousing 

word; 
There  was  never  a  faltering  foot  in  the  ranks  of  those  that  heard;— 
Lads  from  the  Hampshire  hills,  and  the  rich  Connecticut  vales, 
Sons  of  the  old  Bay  Colony,  from  its  shores  and  inland  dales; 
Swiftly  they  fell  in  line;  no  fear  their  valor  could  chill; 
Ah,  brave  the  show  as  they  ranged  a-row  on  the  eve  of  Bunker  Hill! 

'Now  they  are  gone  through  the  night  with  never  a  thought  of  fame. 
Gone  to  the  field  of  a  fight  that  shall  win  them  a  deathless  name; 
Some  shall  never  return  again,  or  behold  the  set  of  the  sun, 
But  lie  like  the  Concord  slain,  and  the  slain  of  Lexington, 
Martyrs  to  Freedom's  cause.    Ah,  how  at  their  deeds  we  thrill. 
The  men  whose  might  made  strong  the  height  on  the  eve  of  Bunker 
Hill!" 


—275— 


THE   TALE   OF  MAN'S  AMBITION   AND 
THE  LURE  OF  THE  LABRADOR 


This  is  the  tale  of  man's  ambition 
that  leads  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  defies  the 
dangers  of  nature.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  Arctic  and  the  suf- 
fering that  man  endures  to  conquer  its  mysteries;  a  tale  that  in 
its  unselfish  devotion  and  loyal  friendship  rejuvenates  faith  in  manhood. 

T  WAS  in  the  summer  of  1903.     The  lure  of  the 


Labrador  had  challenged  the  ambitions  of  men 


^  since  the  very  discovery  of  the  western  world. 
From  the  great  center  of  modern  civilization,  the 
city  of  New  York,  two  Americans  bade  good-bye  to  their 
homes  and  friends  and  started  on  the  long  journey 
toward  this  long-sought  magnet  of  exploration.  In 
them  was  the  true  pioneer  spirit  that  many  generations 
before  had  fired  those  dauntless  men  and  women  who 
opened  up  our  land  and  prepared  there  a  way  for  civil- 
ization. 

Labrador  consists  of  a  high  plateau,  lying  mainly 
about  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea-level.  This 
plateau  is  full  of  little  ponds  and  lakes  which  discharge 
their  waters  in  rapid  streams  and  rivers,  flowing  to  all 
four  points  of  the  compass.  Its  temperature  may  rise 
to  ninety  degrees  on  a  summer  day,  but  frequently 
drops  down  to  the  freezing-point  before  the  same  day 
closes.    Its  winter  is  that  of  the  Arctic  regions. 

The  American  explorers  planned  to  enter  the  coun- 
try from  the  northeast  coast  and  make  their  way  to  the 

—276— 


THE  LABRADOR 


George  River,  where  it  was  reported  the  Nascaupee 
Indians  gathered  yearly  in  late  August  or  early  Sep- 
tember to  hunt  the  herds  of  caribou,  which  migrated  at 
that  season  to  the  sea-coast.  The  Indians  were  said 
to  kill  great  numbers  of  these  caribou  with  spears,  dry- 
ing their  flesh  for  food  for  the  winter,  and  curing  the 
skins  for  clothing. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  1903  that  the  Americans  landed 
on  the  coast  of  Labrador.  Misfortune  and  hardship 
beset  them  in  the  very  beginning  and  never  left  them. 
The  rivers  were  found  to  be  rapid  and  dangerous,  far 
beyond  their  expectation.  They  saw  no  signs  of  the 
migration  of  the  caribou  or  the  Indians  that  hunted 
them.  They  were  led  astray  by  faulty  and  incorrect 
maps  and  misled  by  such  vague  bits  of  information 
as  they  were  able  to  obtain  from  the  few  natives  along 
the  coast.  The  game  upon  which  they  had  relied  for 
food  proved  to  be  alarmingly  scarce. 

Labrador  was  experiencing  a  famine,  and  the  year 
1903  was  the  worst  on  record.  Men  cannot  live  long 
upon  such  food  as  they  can  carry  on  their  backs,  and  the 
scarcity  of  game  soon  brought  the  two  explorers  face 
to  face  with  starvation.  In  September,  the  Labrador 
summer  changes  rapidly  into  winter.  The  bitter  cold 
made  their  condition  still  more  desperate,  and,  toward 
the  end  of  the  month,  they  turned  about  for  the  return 
trip.  From  that  time  on,  their  sufferings  from  hunger, 
the  deep  snow,  and  its  freezing  weather,  were  intense. 
In  the  middle  of  October  the  climax  came.  Their  pro- 
visions were  exhausted.  One  of  the  Americans  became 
too  weak  to  go  farther. 

' '  Leave  me  here, ' '  he  said  to  his  comrade, ' '  and  save 

your  own  life. ' ' 

In  this  desperate  plight,  it  was  decided  that  the 
comrade,  with  a  half-breed  Indian  guide,  must  leave  his 

—277— 


HERO  TALES 


weakened  friend,  and  go  back  to  a  spot  where  it  was 
remembered  that  a  bag,  with  a  small  amount  of  flour  in 
it,  had  been  left  when  they  were  coming  in  from  the 
coast.  This  they  were  to  divide,  the  comrade  bringing 
part  back  to  the  starving  explorer,  and  the  half-breed 
retaining  the  remainder  to  support  him  while  he  tried 
to  get  back  to  the  settlements  to  obtain  help. 

A  silence  rested  over  the  men  in  the  death-like  wilds. 

''Please  read  me  the  twenty- third  chapter  of  Mat- 
thew," asked  the  starving  explorer. 

His  comrade  opened  a  pocket  Bible  and  read  aloud : 

''For  whosoever  exalteth  himself  shall  be  abased; 
and  he  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be  exalted. ' ' 

"Now  let  me  hear  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  First 
Corinthians, ' '  asked  the  explorer. 

His  comrade  read  the  words :  "When  I  was  a  child, 
I  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood  as  a  child,  I  thought  as 
a  child ;  but  when  I  became  a  man,  I  put  away  childish 
things. ' ' 

The  moment  of  parting  had  now  come.  The  com- 
rade leaned  over  the  wan  and  weakened  explorer.  He 
touched  his  lips  to  the  sad  face.  The  sick  man  lifted 
his  head  and  kissed  the  cheek  of  his  friend.  For  a 
moment,  they  were  in  one  another's  embrace,  their  faces 
held  close  together.     Then  they  drew  away. 

There  was  a  blinding  snow-storm.  The  comrade  and 
the  half-breed  guide  pushed  out  into  the  tempest.  Their 
clothing  was  soon  frozen  stiff  from  fording  swiftly  run- 
ning streams.  Their  faces  were  numb  with  cold.  For 
two  days  they  faced  the  beating  storm.  At  dusk  of  the 
second  day,  they  reached  the  camp  where  they  had  left 
the  precious  flour,  only  to  find  that  nothing  remained  of 
it  but  a  lump  of  green  and  black  mould. 

"I  will  try  to  get  back  to  my  friend,"  said  the  com- 
rade.    "You  hurry  to  the  nearest  village." 

—278— 


THE  LABRADOR 


The  half-breed   guide  pulled  from  his   pocket   a 
leather-covered  Book  of  Common  Prayer. 
"Read  it,"  he  begged. 

The  book  seemed  to  open  of  itself.  The  comrade 
bared  his  head  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  words  of  the 
ninety-first  Psalm. 

"He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High ; 
Shall  abide  under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty. ' ' 

Then  they  clasped  hands  and  parted. 

The  ten  days  which  followed  are  almost  beyond 
words  to  describe.  Smitten  with  the  blindness  that 
often  comes  to  men  in  that  region,  the  comrade  was 
unable  to  even  read  his  compass  or  find  his  way.  His 
clothes  were  so  torn  by  the  winds  and  wilds  that  they 
offered  little  protection  from  the  terrific  cold.  As  he 
forded  the  rivers,  the  waters  froze  upon  him.  His 
hardships  and  suffering  so  wrought  upon  him  that  his 
mind  began  to  give  way  under  the  strain,  and  he  heard 
voices — the  voices  of  those  long  dead — that  inflamed 
his  mind  and  goaded  him  to  suffering  almost  beyond 
human  endurance.  For  ten  awful  days,  he  endured 
these  torments.  Then,  just  as  he  was  sinking  down  into 
that  sleep  of  cold  and  exhaustion  from  which  there  is 
no  awakening,  he  was  found  by  rescuers. 

The  half-breed,  George,  had  saved  him.  It  had 
taken  the  guide  seven  days  of  hardship  to  make  his  way 
back  to  a  human  habitation.  He  had  floated  down  a 
river  on  a  raft,  formed  by  tying  a  few  logs  together  with 
his  pack-strap  and  a  bit  of  old  fish-line.  This  flimsy 
craft  threatened  to  go  to  pieces  under  him,  and  he  had 
lain  down  and  held  the  logs  together  with  his  arms, 
while  the  icy  seas  broke  over  him  again  and  again. 
When  he  arrived  at  a  settlement,  half  dead,  women  fled 
from  him  in  terror,  so  dreadful  was  his  appearance. 
As  they  reached  the  camp  where  they  had  left  the 
—279— 


HERO  TALES 


American  explorer,  they  found  him  lying  wrapped  in 
his  blankets — dead.  Beside  him  lay  his  diary,  and  on 
its  pages  his  weak  fingers  had  scrawled  these  words,  the 
last  in  the  book : 

''Our  parting  was  most  affecting. — George  said, 
'The  Lord  help  us,  Hubbard.  With  His  help  I'll  save 
you,  if  I  can!  Then  he  cried.  So  did  Wallace.  Wallace 
stooped  and  kissed  my  cheek  with  his  poor,  sunken, 
bearded  lips — several  times — and  I  kissed  his.  George 
did  the  same  and  I  kissed  his  cheek.  Then  they  went 
away.     God  bless  and  help  them.'* 

This  is  the  tale  of  Leonidas  Hubbard,  the  American 
explorer  who  lost  his  life  in  Labrador ;  and  his  comrade, 
Dillon  Wallace,  an  American  lawyer,  who  was  rescued 
by  the  faithful  half-breed  guide.  Whenever  men  gather 
around  the  fire  to  relate  adventures  in  the  wilderness, 
the  courage  and  devotion,  the  friendship  and  manhood 
of  these  men  will  ever  move  the  strongest  hearts. 


"Spirit  of  the  frozen  North, 

Where  the  wave  is  chained  and  still, 
And  the  savage  bear  loolvs  forth 

Nightly  from  his  eaverned  hill; 
Down  from  thy  eternal  throne, 

From  thy  land  of  cloud  and  storm, 
Where  the  meeting  icel>ergs  groan, 

Sweepeth  on  thy  wrathful  form. 

"Dark  and  desolate  and  lone, 

Curtained  with  the  tempest-cloud, 
Drawn  around  thy  ancient  throne 

Like  oblivion's  moveless  shroud, 
Dim  and  distantly  the  sun 

Glances  on  thy  palace  walls. 
But  a  shadow  cold  and  dun 

Broods  along  its  pillared  halls." 


—280— 


THE    TALE   OF   THE   PHILANTHROPIST 
WHO  GAVE  HIS  LIFE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  rich  man 
who  became  imbued  with  a  great  principle  and  offered 
his  fortune  to  uphold   it.     It  is  a  tale  of  philanthropy  that  can- 
not be  computed  in   money,  for  the  gift  of  this  man  was  beyond 
the  power  of  gold  and  silver;  he  gave  his  courage,  his  valor,  and  his  life. 

IT  WAS  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  eighteenth  of 
July,  in  1861,  that  a  regiment  of  men  marched 
across  Folly  and  Morris  Islands  from  Port  Royal, 
South  Carolina,  bent  on  an  attack  on  the  Confed- 
erates at  Fort  "Wagner.  In  the  lead  was  a  handsome, 
soldierly  man,  fair  and  serene  of  countenance.  Follow- 
ing, in  perfect  military  formation,  was  the  54th 
Infantry  Regiment,  the  first  company  of  negroes  sent 
forth  to  battle  against  their  former  masters  of  the 
South — as  brave  a  body  of  men  as  any  that  participated 
in  the  fierce  struggle  of  the  Civil  War.  Colonel  Robert 
Gould  Shaw,  a  man  of  breeding,  wealth,  and  education, 
had  organized  this  regiment  of  blacks  in  Massachusetts, 
in  face  of  abuse  and  ridicule,  and  despite  all  adverse 
criticism,  had  drilled  them  to  the  point  of  perfection. 
The  feeling  against  the  negroes  in  the  North  at 
that  time,  though  not  as  intense  as  in  the  South,  was 
still  very  bitter. 

This  hated  regiment  had  been  selected  because  of 
its  high  military  discipline,  for  the  post  of  honor  in 
the  attack  on  Fort  Wagner;    and  with  brave  hearts 

—281— 


HERO  TALES 


they  marched  against  the  enemy  to  fight  for  the  libera- 
tion of  their  race  from  slavery.  Shaw  had  proven  that 
the  black  man  could  be  made  into  a  good  tactician,  and 
now  was  his  opportunity  to  demonstrate  that  he  was 
also  a  good  fighter.  If  such  he  was  proven,  no  man 
could  say  that  the  men  wlio  fought  bravely  for  their 
cause  were  not  entitled  to  their  freedom. 

At  about  seven  o'clock  the  regiment  was  within  six 
hundred  yards  of  the  guns  of  Fort  Wagner.  Behind 
the  guns  were  the  men  who  had  been  their  masters  for 
years,  and  felt  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  band  of 
"niggers,"  and  far  greater  contempt  for  the  white 
man  that  led  them.  The  regiment  of  black  men,  in 
their  uniforms  of  blue,  rested  quietly;  perhaps  their 
hearts  were  filled  with  trepidation,  all  the  more  because 
they  were  fighting  against  the  men  whose  slightest  com- 
mand they  had  been  accustomed  to  obey. 

At  last  the  order  was  given  them  to  advance.  In 
the  lead  was  the  brave  colonel,  and  the  troops  were 
encouraged  by  his  serene  confidence.  Four  hundred 
yards;  three  hundred;  two  hundred — and  still  not  a 
shot  from  the  fort.  The  silence  was  unnerving,  but 
still  they  marched  on  toward  the  frowning  cannon,  led 
by  their  daring  commander. 

They  were  now  within  one  hundred  yards  of  the 
fort.  Suddenly,  a  sheet  of  flame  flashed  from  its  guns. 
The  roar  and  shriek  of  shot  and  shell  broke  the  silence. 
The  enemy's  aim  had  been  deadly,  and  the  black  men 
fell  by  the  score,  mortally  wounded.  This  was  the 
baptism  of  the  regiment  in  battle — their  first  fight — 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  front  battalion  wavered 
and  seemed  about  to  break  and  run. 

Unharmed,  himself,  the  gallant  commander  turned 
and  saw  the  indecision  of  his  men.  Sword  in  hand, 
he  smiled  encouragingly  upon  them. 

—282— 


THE  PHILANTHROPIST 


"Forward,  54th!"  he  shouted,  and  with  cheers  the 
black  regiment  followed  him  through  the  ditch  and 
were  on  the  parapet  of  the  fort  on  the  right  before  the 
enemy  had  realized  that  they  had  weathered  the  hail 
of  shot  and  shell. 

The  first  man  on  the  wall  was  the  brave  Colonel 
Shaw  himself. 

Alone,  he  stood  erect,  a  noble  figure,  in  sharp  relief 
against  the  distant  horizon. 

' '  Forward,  54th ! ' '  again  rang  out  his  cry. 

The  negro  soldiers  were  now  swarming  over  the 
walls,  about  to  capture  the  fierce  defenders  of  the  fort. 

The  brave  figure  in  the  van  was  suddenly  seen  to 
waver  and  then  sink  to  the  wall,  mortally  wounded. 
The  men  of  the  regiment  were  now  without  their  leader, 
the  sole  inspiration  of  their  attack.  They  wavered, 
broke,  and  tumbled  off  the  walls,  in  complete  rout, 
leaving  the  fort  still  in  the  possession  of  the  Con- 
federates. 

After  the  battle,  the  commanding  general  of  the 
fort  said  to  a  Union  prisoner :  "Had  Colonel  Shaw  been 
in  command  of  white  troops,  I  should  give  him  an 
honorable  burial.  As  it  is,  I  shall  bury  him  in  the 
common  trench  with  the  negroes  that  fell  with  him." 

The  ruthless  words  showed  that  slavery  had  been 
wounded  to  the  death.  Colonel  Robert  Gould  Shaw's 
work  had  not  been  in  vain.  The  Confederate  general 
little  knew  that  he  was  really  giving  to  the  brave 
colonel  the  most  honorable  burial  that  he  could  have 
devised. 

In  Boston  there  stands  a  monument  to  his  memory 
because  of  his  peculiar  fortune  to  live  and  die  for  a 
great  principle  of  humanity  when  the  onward  march  of 
civilization  was  at  stake. 

—283— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
WHO  APPEALED  TO  WOMANHOOD 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  daughter 
of  New  England  who  braved  the  censure  of  the  world  in 
her  desire  to  help  womanhood.    It  Is  a  tale  of  a  life  consecrated 
to  the  cause  of  emancipation    in  which  the   ridicule  of  the  genera- 
tion was  conquered  and  a  great  nation  listened  to  the  appeal  of  reason, 

IT  WAS  in  the  year  1820  that  a  little  girl  came  to 
bless  a  modest  Quaker  home  in  South  Adams,  in 
Massachusetts.  It  was  a  quiet  village,  and  as  the 
child  grew,  there  was  not  much  opportunity  for 
her  mind  to  be  filled  with  ideas  of  the  strange  outside 
world.  However,  this  demure  little  Quakeress  had  a 
firm  will,  and  in  spite  of  her  natural  timidity  and  the 
conservative  influences  of  her  home,  she  possessed  the 
courage  of  strong  convictions. 

The  girl  early  became  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
liberty  and  entered  into  all  the  movements  tending  to 
free  men  from  slavery,  whether  it  were  the  mastery 
of  the  white  man  over  the  black,  or  the  mastery  of  a 
passion  over  a  soul.  She  believed  that  the  demon  rum 
was  a  greater  enemy  to  humanity  than  even  the  tyranny 
of  political  government,  and  in  her  girlhood  she  began 
to  fight  all  these  foes  of  mankind. 

"Woman  is  a  slave,"  she  exclaimed.  "She  is  held 
down  as  an  inferior  being  under  a  male  master.  The 
time  will  come  when  she  will  arise  and  throw  off  the 
shackles  that  bind  her." 

—284— 


THE  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


The  words  brought  severe  rebuke  upon  her. 

"This  woman  must  be  suppressed,"  declared  the 
political  leaders.  "Her  teachings  are  dangerous  to 
both  man  and  woman. ' ' 

"That  woman  is  on  an  equality  with  man  is  all 
nonsense,"  chimed  in  the  scientific  authorities.  "She 
has  neither  the  capacity  nor  the  right  to  consider  gov- 
ernment and  political  affairs." 

"The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  is  mightier  than 
that  which  carries  the  sword  or  governs  the  world," 
was  the  more  diplomatic  response  of  the  statesmen. 

But  neither  denunciation  nor  persecution  could  force 
this  woman  to  surrender.  She  had  challenged  her 
generation  and  was  willing  to  stand  the  consequences. 
Her  battles,  while  those  of  peace,  were  freighted  with 
as  mighty  consequences  as  those  of  war.  In  her  soul 
she  felt  this,  and  she  stood  on  the  firing-line  of  public 
opinion  and  led  the  conflict  for  the  emancipation  of 
womanhood. 

"Women  of  America,"  she  cried,  "How  long  are 
you  going  to  submit  to  slavery?" 

Her  words  aroused  thousands  of  women  through- 
out the  country,  but  many  of  them  feared  to  join  the 
movement  openly.  The  custom  of  the  times  made  it  a 
disgrace  for  a  woman  to  speak  in  public.  In  some  in- 
stances it  was  necessary  for  women  to  hold  their  meet- 
ings secretly  in  order  to  protect  their  reputations. 

This  woman  found  that  she  must  not  only  fight  for 
her  womanhood  but  that  she  must  break  the  chains  of 
bigotry  that  bound  her  generation. 

"I  will  travel  through  every  state  in  this  great 
country,"  she  declared,  "and  carry  the  message  of 
liberty  to  woman.  I  will  teach  them  that  taxation  with- 
out representation  is  tyranny ;  that  domestic  servitude 
without  effective  expression  of  opinion  is  slavery." 

—285— 


HERO  TALES 


As  this  woman  appeared  on  the  public  platforms 
throughout  the  country,  she  was  often  jeered  by  the 
crowd  and  met  by  taunts  and  insulting  remarks.  Many 
men  would  not  allow  their  wives  and  daughters  to  hear 
her  speak. 

' '  The  idea  that  a  woman  should  have  a  right  to  vote 
or  that  she  could  even  learn  how  to  vote  is  prepos- 
terous, ' '  exclaimed  political  leaders. 

''You  trust  the  safety  of  your  homes,  the  dearest 
possessions  on  earth,  to  the  women,"  was  the  reply, 
"but  leave  your  government  to  ignorance  and  im- 
morality so  long  as  it  comes  under  the  name  of  man." 

As  this  good  Quaker  woman  was  holding  up  the 
beacon  of  liberty  and  enlightenment  to  her  generation, 
she  was  even  scoffed  at  and  hissed.  One  day,  while  she 
was  traveling  in  the  West,  on  one  of  her  fearless  cam- 
paigns, the  clouds  began  to  gather  in  the  town  where 
she  was  to  speak.  A  terrific  wind  swept  the  community. 
The  ugly  clouds  hung  low  as  they  swung  down  the 
valley. 

"It  is  a  cyclone,"  oried  the  inhabitants,  as  they 
fled  to  the  cellars  of  their  homes  and  other  places  of 
refuge. 

"Flee  for  safety,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  residents, 
excitedly,  as  the  peaceful  Quaker  woman  looked  at  the 
approaching  storm. 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied,  quietly.  "After  my 
many  experiences,  a  little  thing  like  a  cyclone  does  not 
frighten  me." 

It  was  during  the  presidential  election  of  1872. 

"It  needs  some  decided  act  of  rebellion  to  bring  men 
to  their  senses,"  she  decided,  "some  act  that  is  peace- 
ful but  decisive." 

With  this  conclusion  she  determined  upon  the  war- 
fare. 

—286— 


THE  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


''I  will  go  to  the  polls  and  actually  cast  a  ballot," 
she  decided. 

She  knew  that  such  a  course  would  arouse  the  na- 
tion. It  would  be  considered  a  direct  blow  at  man's 
sacred  right  to  govern.  No  martyr  ever  went  to  the 
guillotine  with  more  courage  than  was  required  for 
this  woman  to  go  to  the  polls.  Her  rebellious  intent 
was  sure  to  create  as  great  a  political  furore  as  did 
the  famous  ''Boston  Tea  Party"  against  "taxation 
without  representation." 

On  this  November  election-day,  dressed  in  her 
sombre  Quaker  garb,  her  kindly  face  set  with  determin- 
ation, this  woman  passed  through  the  streets  of  Ro- 
chester, New  York,  where  she  was  making  her  home. 
The  ballot-box  in  those  days  was  not  as  closely  pro- 
tected as  it  is  to-day.  The  Quaker  woman  passed  the 
inspectors  and  greeted  them  with  a  low  bow.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  slip  of  paper,  and  as  she  approached 
the  box  she  quickly  jammed  the  paper  into  it. 

The  election  watchers  sprang  to  their  feet.  The 
news  swept  through  the  town :  ' '  A  woman  has  voted. ' ' 
The  astounding  information  passed  over  the  whole 
country,  and  was  met  with  expressions  of  contempt  and 
indignation. 

"You  are  under  arrest,"  said  an  officer  of  the  law, 
and  the  first  woman  to  cast  a  ballot  in  America  was  led 
to  jail. 

On  the  seventh  of  June,  in  1873,  the  white-haired 
Quakeress  stood  before  the  court. 

"You  are  accused  of  knowingly,  wrongly,  and  un- 
lawfully voting  for  a  representative  in  Congress  in  the 
eighth  ward  of  Rochester,  being  a  person  of  the  female 
sex, ' '  charged  the  court. 

"Not  guilty,"  pleaded  the  woman  in  quiet  dignity. 

' '  I  claim  that  my  client  has  a  right  to  vote, ' '  began 


HERO  TALES 


the  lawyer  who  had  come  to  her  defense,  laying  before 
the  court  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

When  the  lawyer  for  the  defense  ceased  to  speak, 
the  judge  arose  and  took  from  his  pocket  an  elaborate 
opinion  which  he  proceeded  to  read,  declaring  that  no 
woman  had  any  right  whatsoever  to  vote,  and  that  no 
plea  of  ignorance  or  extenuating  circumstances  could 
excuse  such  a  crime  against  the  sacred  right  of  the 
ballot  and  our  system  of  government. 

^'Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  ordered,  "harken  to 
your  verdict,  as  the  Court  has  recorded  it.  You  say 
you  find  the  defendant  guilty  of  the  offense  charged — 
so  say  you  all. ' ' 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  jury-box.  After  a 
short  silence,  the  judge  concluded:  '' Gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  you  are  discharged." 

The  prisoner  rose  to  her  feet  and  attempted  to 
speak.  The  crowd  in  the  court-room  broke  into  sneers 
and  shouts  of  derision. 

"The  court  imposes  a  fine  of  one  hundred  dollars," 
shouted  the  judge,  above  the  hoots  of  the  spectators. 

The  Quaker  woman  glared  at  the  jeering  throng. 
Her  piercing  eyes  turned  toward  the  Judge. 

''Eesistance  to  tyranny,"  she  cried,  "is  obedience 
to  God.    I  shall  never  pay  a  penny  of  that  fine !" 

According  to  the  records  of  the  court  she  never  did. 

Years  after,  in  this  same  town  of  Rochester,  the 
body  of  this  courageous  woman  lay  in  state  in  her  home. 
The  throng  that  had  ridiculed  her,  and  cast  contempt 
upon  her  name,  honored  her  as  their  first  citizen,  and 
the  town  in  which  she  had  passed  through  such  perse- 
cution, mourned  for  days,  with  the  American  flag  on 
all  the  public  buildings  at  half-mast;  the  passing  of  the 
woman  who  cast  the  first  ballot  in  America — Susan  B. 
Anthony. 

—288— 


SUSAN    B.   ANTHONY,  WHO  GAVE   HER   LIFE  TO   EVIANCIPATE  WOMANHOOD 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  "WAR  CHILD"  OF 
THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 


This  is  the  tale  of  an  Alabaman 
who  fought  for  his  conscience  and  offered  his  life  for  that 
which  he  felt   n  his  heart  to  be  right;  who  defended  his  honne 
when  it  was  in  danger  and  crowned  his  life  by  fighting  for  the  flag 
of  his  country  when  Its  honor  was  attacked  by  an  old  world  monarchy. 

K 

IT  WAS  on  the  tenth  day  of  September,  1836,  that  a 
boy  entered  the  world  at  the  city  of  Augusta,  in 
Georgia;  a  boy  who  was  later  to  become  one  of 
the  most  beloved  among  all  the  men  in  this  great 
United  States. 

At  the  early  age  of  five  years  the  boy's  parents  died 
and  he  was  sent  to  Cheshire,  in  Connecticut,  to  live  with 
his  mother's  relatives.  There  he  attended  school  until 
the  age  of  fourteen,  and  then  he  began  to  earn  his  own 
living  in  New  York  City.  Through  influential  friends, 
he  received  an  appointment  to  West  Point,  and,  in 
1859,  he  graduated  with  the  rank  of  second  lieutenant 
of  the  United  States  army. 

He  served  with  the  Fifth  Dragoons  in  New  Mexico, 
with  great  honor,  in  scouting  expeditions  against  the 
Indians,  and,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  he  re- 
signed his  commission  in  the  United  States  army  and 
joined  the  Confederacy,  in  the  defense  of  the  principles 
and  traditions  of  the  land  of  his  birth.  His  bravery 
soon  won  him  the  title  of  ''War  Child,"  and,  when  the 
Confederates  heard  of  his  departure  upon  some  dar- 

—289— 


HERO  TALES 


ing  expedition,  the  whisper  would  run  down  the  lines : 
' '  The  War  Child  rides  to-night. ' '  The  dashing  cavalry- 
officer 's  alertness  and  readiness  were  manifested 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  his  brilliant  military 
career.  When  he  was  harassing  the  Union  army 
around  Chattanooga,  the  Union  officers  complained  that 
' '  the  War  Child  has  an  unpleasant  way  of  calling  before 
breakfast,  when  he  should  be  ninety  miles  away. ' ' 

His  remarkable  and  fearless  attacks  on  the  Union 
army  won  him  rapid  promotion  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Confederates,  and  he  was  the  most  feared  of  all  the 
Confederate  officers.  The  Union  soldiers  dubbed  him 
' '  Fighting  Joe. ' '  The  nickname  was  misleading.  He 
did  not  love  war.  He  was  opposed  to  bloodshed,  but 
was  always  ready  to  stand  up  in  defense  of  what  he 
thought  his  rights,  against  all  comers.  It  has  been 
said,  that  before  going  into  battle  and  before  retiring 
at  night  he  would  invariably  offer  prayer. 

When  the  great  conflict  between  the  North  and 
South  ended,  the  "War  Child"  had  gained  the  title  of 
major-general,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine.  He  retired 
to  private  life  in  Wheeler,  down  in  Alabama,  and  fought 
just  as  energetically  to  make  his  comrades  forget  the 
war  as  he  had  fought  for  victory  for  the  Confederacy. 
To  this  man  is  due  much  of  the  honor  for  bringing  the 
North  and  South  into  the  harmony  that  now  exists  be- 
tween them. 

The  adored  idol  of  Alabama  was  steadily  re-elected 
to  Congress  by  his  staunch  friends  and  fellow-citizens, 
and  was  serving  the  government  with  the  same  vigor  as 
that  with  which  he  had  fought  against  it,  when  the 
Spanish- American  war  broke  out. 

*'I  want  to  fight  for  the  old  flag  again,"  he  said,  as 
he  offered  his  services  to  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment, '*in  any  capacity." 

—290— 


THE  "WAR  CHILD" 


A  Northern  senator,  who  was  an  ex-Union  officer, 
was  one  of  the  first  to  give  strong  endorsement  to  the 
old  warrior  of  the  gray  in  the  days  long  gone.  He  and 
several  influential  men  called  on  President  McKinley 
and  made  known  their  mission. 

The  great  president  listened  to  their  story,  and  then 
exclaimed:  "Why,  of  course,  I  am  going  to  appoint 
him  a  general." 

"I  am  mighty  glad  to  hear  it,"  responded  the 
Northern  senator.  ''And  I  want  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, why  I  regard  '  Fighting  Joe'  as  one  of  the  greatest 
generals  this  country  ever  produced.  He  gave  me 
more  trouble  during  the  war  than  any  other  dozen  men, 
and  scared  me  so  that  I  think  it  must  have  stunted  my 
growth. ' ' 

"Before  the  war  ended,"  continued  the  senator,  "I 
found  that  he  had  chased  me  pretty  much  all  over  seven 
states,  and  I  guess  if  Lee  hadn't  surrendered,  'Joe' 
would  have  taken  my  scalp,  for  he  was  getting  closer  all 
the  time." 

It  was  the  second  day  of  May,  in  1898.  The  old 
warrior  of  the  gray  now  stood  as  a  major-general  of 
the  volunteer  army  of  blue  in  command  of  a  cavalry 
division,  which,  under  the  leadership  of  the  old  "War 
Child  of  the  South,"  took  a  prominent  part  in  freeing 
the  Island  of  Cuba  from  its  Spanish  oppressors. 

While  the  American  people  will  always  have  a  warm 
place  in  their  hearts  for  their  loyal  warriors,  it  is  tender 
sentiment  that  makes  true  heroes.  Fighting  against 
the  government,  thirty-seven  years  before,  this  old  war- 
rior now  led  his  army  in  the  defense  of  his  former  foe 
when  it  was  threatened  by  foreign  powers  and  its  honor 
was  attacked. 

The  people  of  the  North  and  South  alike  rejoiced 
over  his  prowess.     It  was  probably  the  happiest  mo- 

-^291— 


HERO  TALES 


ment  in  the  old  warrior's  life  when  he  donned  the  blue 
again  and  fought  under  the  United  States  flag.  History 
has  but  few  parallels  of  this  remarkable  case.  Loved 
and  respected  by  both  North  and  South,  when  this  old 
warrior  died  on  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  January,  1906, 
his  body  was  carried  through  a  great  throng  to  the 
National  Cemetery,  and  buried  with  the  impressive 
military  honors  due  his  rank,  and  the  re-united  Ameri- 
can people  together  mourned  their  dead  hero — General 
Joseph  Wheeler. 


"Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding. 

The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 

No  braver  battle  was  won: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  blue. 

Under  the  garlands,  the  gray. 

"From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  blue, 

Under  the  lilies,  the  gray. 

"No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever. 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  blue, 

Tears  and  love  for  the  gray." 


—292— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WIRELESS  OPERATOR 
WHO  SAVED  A  THOUSAND  LIVES 


This  is  the  tale  of  an  operator 
who  remained  at  his  post  of  duty  while  his  ship  was 
sinking  and  stood  the  first  test  of  a  new  science  of  wire- 
less telegraphy.     It  is  a  tale  close  to  the  hearts  of  living  men 
and  women,  who  felt  the  thrill  of  its  splendid  fidelity  to  humble  duty. 

IT  "WAS  early  in  the  morning  of  the  twenty-third  of 
January  in  1909.  A  heavy  fog  rested  over  the 
sea  off  Nantucket,  on  the  Atlantic  coast.  The 
great  ocean  liner  Republic,  bearing  more  than  a 
thousand  lives,  ploughed  through  the  darkness  of  the 
night.  The  officers  stood  on  the  bridge  throughout  the 
long  night's  vigil.  The  dead  silence  of  the  hour  was 
broken  only  by  the  beat  of  the  ship's  engines  and  the 
dash  of  the  sea  on  the  bow. 

Her  precious  cargo  of  humanity  was  sleeping  peace- 
fully in  the  heart  of  the  vessel  that  had  weathered  a 
thousand  fogs  and  storms,  and  had  always  brought  its 
cargo  safely  to  port. 

Suddenly,  out  from  the  darkness,  like  a  great  weird 
phantom,  loomed  a  ghostly,  heaving  figure.  The 
engines  of  the  huge  ship  thundered.  The  sea  rose  in 
tempest. 

Then,  there  was  a  crash  that  sounded  like  worlds 
coming  together  in  terrific  collision.  Men,  women,  and 
children  were  thrown  from  their  berths.  Shrieks  of 
terror,  and  the  moans  of  the  injured,  mingled  with  the 

—293— 


HERO  TALES 


orders  of  the  officers  on  the  bridge,  and  the  roar  of  the 
sea  that  swept  the  decks  of  the  great  ocean  greyhound. 

"The  ship  is  sinking,"  went  up  the  cry  from  the 
terror-stricken  passengers,  who  were  crowding  to  the 
decks. 

' '  There  is  no  danger, ' '  came  the  reply  from  the  calm 
officers. 

The  sound  of  rushing  water  echoed  through  the 
ship.  The  bow  of  another  vessel  was  crunching  at  its 
side. 

The  great  floating  palace  shuddered  and  floundered. 

Suddenly,  the  lights  went  out  and  the  ship  was  in 
utter  darkness.  Visions  of  a  horrible  death  at  sea  in 
the  midst  of  winter  appeared  to  the  frightened  pas- 
sengers. The  waves  were  dashing  above  the  doomed 
ship.    The  early  morning  air  was  bitter  cold. 

It  was  in  scenes  such  as  this  that  a  youth,  twenty- 
five  years  of  age,  whose  greatest  income  had  been  but 
twelve  dollars  a  week,  stood  at  his  post  of  duty  before 
the  wireless  telegraph  instrument  carried  by  the  Re- 
public, and  calmly  flashed  into  the  clouds  the  message 
that  caused  the  ships  of  the  sea  to  pause  and  turn  about 
in  their  courses  and  sent  a  thrill  throughout  the  civil- 
ized world. 

"C.  Q.  D."    "C.  Q.  D."   "C.  Q.  D." 

Jack  Binns,  the  wireless  telegraph  operator  on  the 
ill-fated  steamship,  had  just  turned  in  after  a  hard 
day's  work,  and  had  composed  himself  to  a  well-earned 
rest,  when  the  shock  of  the  impact  of  the  two  ships  threw 
him  out  of  his  berth.  As  with  every  true  hero,  his  first 
thought  was  of  duty.  He  rushed  to  the  wireless  ap- 
paratus and  tested  the  mechanism.  Finding  this  in 
working  condition,  he  then  tried  to  find  the  cause  of 
the  uproar.  His  first  impression  was  that  the  ship  had 
run  aground,  but  it  was  so  dark  outside  that  nothing 

—294— 


THE  WIRELESS  OPERATOR 


could  be  distinctly  seen.  Discipline  then  called  him  to 
report  to  his  captain,  but  the  decks  were  strewn  with 
wreckage,  and  fearing  to  stay  away  from  the  only  means 
of  succor,  he  returned  to  his  post,  there  to  send  out  to 
the  world  that  code  message  which  has  since  become 
famous,  the  ^'C.  Q.  D."  message  of  distress. 

AVliile  laboring  in  his  little  office,  endeavoring  to  get 
in  touch  with  the  outside  world,  he  was  called  to  the 
bridge  by  the  captain.  He  made  his  way  through  the 
wreckage  with  the  assistance  of  the  captain's  steward, 
and  reported  to  that  officer  the  encouraging  news. 

This  intelligence  brought  cheer  to  the  passengers 
who  were  huddled  on  the  deck. 

Binns  returned  to  his  office.  Again  the  call  '  *  C.  Q. 
D. ' '  was  flashed  into  the  clouds.  A  little  electric  spark 
pulsed  through  his  machine.  It  was  Nantucket!  His 
distress  call  was  answered. 

' '  Thank  God ! ' '  exclaimed  Binns, ' '  we  are  saved. ' ' 

Then  began  the  dramatic  happenings  of  which 
''Jack"  Binns  was  the  heroic  central  figure.  "Crash! 
Crash!"  sputtered  the  electric  message  to  the  distant 
station :    ' '  The  Republic.    We  are  shipwrecked ! ' ' 

Flashing  back  to  the  heroic  operator  came  this  mes- 
sage to  cheer  the  endangered  men,  women  and  children, 
and  to  tell  them  that  there  was  assistance  at  hand; 
' '  All  right,  old  man.    Where  are  you  1 ' ' 

^^ Republic  rammed  by  unknown  steamer.  Twenty- 
six  miles  southwest  of  Nantucket  Lightship.  Badly  in 
need  of  immediate  assistance,"  was  the  reply  that  sped 
through  the  clouds  over-seas  to  land. 

The  water  creeping  in  through  the  breach  in  the 
ship's  hull  had  smothered  the  engines.  The  complete 
darkness  added  to  the  already  great  horror.  The  cold 
and  the  pitiless  waves  dashing  alongside  the  ship  struck 
terror  to  the  stoutest  heart. 

—295— 


HERO  TALES 


Down  in  the  bowels  of  this  great  Atlantic  liner  there 
was  a  man,  a  hero,  laboring  with  the  shovel  and  maul, 
feeding  the  one  small  engine  that  controlled  the  wire- 
less telegraph.  The  rest  of  the  crew,  their  usefulness 
over,  now  that  the  larger  engines  had  grown  cold,  had 
fled  to  the  deck,  but  this  heroic  fireman  remained  at  his 
post,  knowing  that  the  passengers'  safety  depended 
upon  his  labor. 

The  brave  Binns  stood  like  a  soldier  on  duty,  work- 
ing under  tremendous  difficulties;  his  cabin  torn  to 
fragments  by  the  impact  of  the  Florida  and  in  utter 
darkness ;  his  sending  key-lever  broken,  he  was  holding 
the  lever  together  with  one  hand  and  sending  with  the 
other.  At  daybreak  his  eyes  fell  on  two  bodies,  victims 
of  the  terrible  collision,  at  the  threshold  of  his  cabin 
door.  Benumbed  and  hungry,  he  searched  for  food, 
and  found  in  an  old  coat-pocket  an  apple,  which  he  de- 
voured with  avidity  and  washed  down  with  a  drink 
of  cold  water.  This  was  the  breakfast  that  was  to  carry 
him  through  that  awful  day  of  suffering. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  waste  and  fog,  came  an  answer 
to  his  first  distress  call.  The  Baltic,  a  sister  ship  of  the 
Republic,  had  taken  his  appeal  from  the  clouds  and  was 
coming  to  the  rescue. 

Then  came  other  messages,  and  still  more.  All  the 
vessels  within  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles  were  rush- 
ing to  the  succor  of  their  sister-ship. 

The  Florida,  not  being  injured  as  badly  as  the 
Republic,  returned  to  the  assistance  of  the  vessel  with 
which  she  had  collided.  With  the  waves  dashing  along- 
side, and  the  bitter,  searching  winds  of  winter  benumb- 
ing the  thousand  scantily  clad  men  and  women,  hu- 
manity required  that  they  be  placed  safely  aboard  the 
Florida.  Throughout  the  bitter  hours  the  lifeboats 
darted  from  the  ships.    The  captain,  with  his  officers, 

—296— 


THE  WIRELESS  OPERATOR 


and  Binns,  were  all  that  were  left  on  the  fast-sinking 
Republic. 

The  hours  dragged  by  slowly  through  the  afternoon. 
Darkness  settled  down  early  with  heavy,  thick  weather. 
About  six  o  'clock  an  explosion  was  heard  near  by. 

Binns,  still  at  his  post,  flashed  a  message  of  inquiry. 
It  was  the  Baltic,  firing  its  signal  bombs.  Out  of  the 
intense  darkness  there  loomed  a  great  shape,  lighted 
from  end  to  end,  a  cheering  sight  to  these  nerve-racked 
men, — heroes  all,  who  had  thrust  aside  all  thought  of 
self  to  protect  and  save  a  thousand  others. 

''Jack"  Binns  in  telling  about  it  exclaimed,  "She 
was  a  blaze  of  light,  and  as  I  sat  there  in  my  little 
splintered  cabin,  the  thought  occurred  to  me  that  the 
most  beautiful  sight  in  the  world  is  a  ship  at  sea  when 
that  ship  is  needed  to  supply  the  link  between  death 
and  life. ' ' 

Thus  soliliquized  the  hero  who  had  sat  at  his  post 
for  fifty-two  hours  without  rest,  and  almost  starving, 
doing  his  utmost  without  selfish  thought  to  lessen  the 
danger  and  suffering  of  his  fellow-men, — which  is,  after 
all,  the  essence  of  heroism. 

But  the  heroism  of  the  day  was  not  yet  done.  When 
the  Baltic  came  alongside  of  the  Florida,  officers  and 
men  began  to  transfer  the  passengers  from  the  dis- 
abled Florida  to  the  Baltic.  This  task  was  extremely 
difficult  and  perilous  as  there  was  a  heavy  swell  run- 
ning, with  the  sea  momentarily  increasing,  and  causing 
the  boats  to  bump  against  the  gangway.  There  was  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  inducing  the  women  passengers  to 
leap  at  the  right  moment.  Upward  of  2,000  people 
were  transferred  during  the  night  and  the  greatest 
credit  is  due  to  the  officers  and  men  for  the  magnificent 
and  cool  manner  in  which  they  conducted  this  most 
arduous  undertaking,  as  it  was  only  their  strenuous 

—297— 


HERO  TALES 


and  unceasing  work  that  prevented  loss  of  life.  Never 
was  there  a  braver  lot  of  men,  whose  courage  was  put 
to  the  crucial  test.  They  came  through  the  trying  or- 
deal with  colors  flying,  and  reflected  wonderful  credit 
upon  that  most  splendid  of  masters,  Captain  Sealby. 

The  great  Republic,  was  now  sinking  fast. 

Binns  tapped  the  keys  of  the  telegraph  ticker  for 
the  last  time:    "Wireless  now  closed." 

In  a  moment  he  was  aboard  a  life-boat  with  the 
doughty  crew,  pulling  stifflj^  toward  the  Baltic.  Thou- 
sands of  throats  broke  into  cheers  as  the  men  came 
alongside.  The  crew  of  the  sinking  ship  were  about 
to  respond  to  the  welcome  when  Williams,  the  second 
officer,  who  was  at  the  tiller,  exclaimed : 

''Now  my  hearties,  steady.  Keep  cool  and  let  them 
see  us  come  up  in  good  style." 

Without  a  word,  the  sailors  ran  alongside  the  gang- 
way with  a  discipline  that  comes  only  from  life  on  the 
seas. 

There,  like  a  fading  ghost  in  the  mists,  tossed  the 
sinking  Republic.  Deserted — to  go  alone  to  its  last 
resting  place  in  the  graveyard  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
where  thousands  of  good  ships  and  brave  men  have 
gone  before  it — NO !  There  on  the  deck  of  the  lost  ship 
stood  the  brave  captain  Sealby. 

He  raised  a  megaphone  to  his  lips : 

"Leave  me.    I  am  all  right!" 

These  were  the  words  that  rang  across  the  waters 
and  thrilled  the  two  thousand  eager  passengers  now  on 
the  Baltic, 

Beside  him  stood  the  faithful  Williams,  his  second 
officer,  refusing  to  desert  his  captain  and  willing  to 
follow  his  ship  to  the  end. 

There  was  the  sound  like  a  shot  from  the  deck  of  the 
Repicblic. 

—298— 


THE  WIRELESS  OPERATOR 


The  sea  opened  like  a  cavern.  One  fleeting  glimpse 
of  the  brave  Republic  and  she  was  gone  forever. 

A  searchlight  played  on  the  spot  where  the  ship 
was  last  seen.  A  heavy  sea  was  running  and  every  man 
was  straining  his  eyes  to  follow  the  movements  of  the 
little  boat  from  the  revenue  cutter  Gresliam,  that  was 
casting  about  in  the  hope  of  rescuing  the  brave  captain 
and  officer  who  had  been  swallowed  up  by  the  sea. 

There  was  a  moment  of  intense  anxiety.  Then  rous- 
ing cheers  went  up  from  the  nearby  ships. 

''Captain  Sealby  is  safe,"  they  cried  exultantly. 
"He  and  Williams  have  been  picked  up  by  the  Gres- 
liam." 

When  the  Baltic  steamed  into  New  York  harbor 
with  more  than  two  thousand  souls  aboard,  there  was 
an  ovation,  the  like  of  which  had  never  been  seen  before 
by  a  home-coming  vessel.  It  was  like  the  return  of 
victorious  warriors  of  old.  The  great  tongue  of  the 
wireless  had  told  the  world  of  the  daring  rescue  at  sea. 
Captain  Sealby  and  his  officers,  with  the  heroic  Binns, 
were  carried  in  triumph  on  the  shoulders  of  the  throng. 
Wireless  telegraphy,  the  most  modern  and  wonderful 
of  sciences,  had  been  tried  and  proved  faithful,  and 
two  continents  paid  tribute  to  the  brave  heroes  of  the 
event  which  had  already  become  the  most  famous  and 
thrilling  sea-story  of  the  generation. 


Let  all  the  world  its  tribute  pay, 
For  glorious  sliall  be  liis  renown; 
Tlioughi  duty's  was  his  only  crown, 

Yet  duty's  patli  is  glory's  way. 


—299— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE   INDIAN  PRINCESS 
WHO  LOVED  THE  WHITE  RACE 


This  Is  the  tale  of  an  Indian  princess 
who  threw  her  life  across  the  path  of  death  for 
the  sake  of  the  white  race.    It  is  a  tale  that  has  passed 
down  through  the  centuries  until  it  has  beconne  folklore  at  the 
hearth  of  every  home  in  the  great  republic  of  the  Western  Hennisphere. 

IT  WAS  down  in  beautiful  Virginia,  in  the  days 
when  its  rivers  and  valleys  were  just  beginning  to 
know  the  presence  of  the  white  man.  The  news 
had  gone  back  to  the  Old  World  that  there  was  a 
land  of  untold  riches,  in  whose  soil  could  be  found  grains 
of  precious  gold.  The  adventurous  white  man  had 
heard  the  call  and  his  ships  were  daring  the  storms  of 
the  seas  to  bring  him  to  the  ''Land  of  the  Golden 
Fleece." 

All  unaware  of  the  strange  commotion  that  had  fired 
the  greed  and  ambitions  of  the  powerful  races  on  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  ocean,  there  lived  in  the  Virginia 
valleys  a  black-eyed  little  maiden,  whose  lithe  form, 
browned  by  sunshine  and  rains,  danced  lightly  over  the 
hillsides  and  meadows. 

The  Princess — they  called  her — Princess  Poca- 
hontas, and  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  Great  Chief, 
Powhatan,  who  reigned  over  a  mighty  tribe. 

The  Powhatans  lived  in  a  village,  far  up  what  is 
now  the  James  Eiver.  Here  it  was  that  Pocahontas, 
the  petted  child  of  her  father  and  a  favorite  of  all  who 

—300— 


THE  INDIAN  PRINCESS 


Knew  her,  passed  her  childhood  in  the  freedom  of  the 
forest.  As  she  grew  into  girlhood,  the  tribesmen  de- 
clared, that  in  beauty  she  rivalled  the  flowers  that  kissed 
her  feet,  as  she  ran  through  the  meadows. 

Princess  Pocahontas  was  a  maiden  twelve  years  of 
age  when  the  white  men  came  from  the  ships  and  built 
their  fort  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.  This  fort  they 
built  in  fear  of  the  red  race,  but  little  could  the  Princess 
understand  their  fear — for  her  own  people  stood  in 
terror  of  these  strange,  pale-faces  who  wore  on  their 
bodies  strange  cloths  as  if  ashamed  of  the  forms  that 
nature  had  given  them.  From  the  far-off  hills  she  had 
caught  glimpses  of  them  as  they  felled  tlie  trees  with 
great  axes.  They  carried  in  their  hands  hideous 
weapons  of  torture  that  burst  forth  in  flames  and  bore 
death  on  their  tongues.  They  called  them  guns,  but 
Pocahontas  could  not  understand  why  they  needed 
these  weird  contrivances,  when  their  arms  were  strong 
and  the  bow  and  the  arrow  were  faithful.  After  their 
fort  was  erected,  and  trunks  of  strong  trees  were  en- 
circled about  it,  these  white  men  set  out  to  explore  the 
land,  and  passed  up  the  river,  which  they  named  in 
honor  of  James,  their  King,  who  was  then  on  the  throne 
of  England.  And  they  called  the  name  of  their  fort, 
Jamestown. 

One  day,  while  Pocahontas  was  in  the  forests  with 
her  people,  there  came  to  the  Indian  village  a  party  of 
these  strange  white  men,  who  asked  for  the  chief  of  the 
tribe. 

A  stout,  strong  man,  with  a  strange,  flowing  beard 
on  his  face,  such  as  she  had  never  before  seen,  called 
to  her  to  come  to  him.  She  feared  their  ghostly  white 
faces  and  ran  to  her  haunts  in  the  forest.  But  when 
she  saw  that  her  tribesmen  were  near  them,  and  the 
strangers  were  holding  before  them  bright  trinkets  that 

—301— 


HERO  TALES 


glittered  in  the  sunlight,  her  heart  leaped  with  delight,' 
and  she  ran  forward  without  fear. 

About  her  neck  they  placed  a  glittering  chain  of 
beads  of  all  colors,  and  on  her  wrists  they  clasped 
broad  bands  of  shining  metal.  Pocahontas  laughed 
with  delight.  Never  had  she  seen  such  beautiful  gems, 
and  she  did  not  know  that  in  all  the  world  there  could 
be  things  so  beautiful.  Surely  she  had  never  found 
them  in  the  forests,  and  even  the  smooth  stones,  that 
twinkled  in  the  sands  of  the  river,  were  not  as  gorgeous 
as  these. 

So  the  tribe  of  Powhatan,  the  great  chief,  became 
the  fast  friends  of  the  white  man.  However,  there 
were  other  tribes  who  did  not  feel  so  kindly  toward  the 
intruders,  and  intended  to  make  them  as  uncomfortable 
as  possible.  They  lurked  behind  the  trees  and  hid  in 
the  thickets,  and  darted  their  deadly  arrows  at  the 
white  man's  head  whenever  an  opportunity  offered. 
But  through  it  all,  the  Powhatans  remained  staunch  and 
true,  and  little  Pocahontas  traveled  fearlessly  back  and 
forth  along  the  forest  trail  to  the  white  man's  village. 
As  the  months  went  by,  she  rendered  many  services  to 
the  outposts. 

One  day  when  John  Smith,  the  commander,  was 
exploring  along  the  river,  he  was  captured  by  the 
brother  of  Powhatan,  who  had  the  keenest  hatred  for 
the  white  man.  A  mock  trial  was  held,  and  Captain 
John  Smith  was  sentenced  to  death.  If  the  captain 
expected  that  Powhatan  would  intercede  for  him,  he 
was  speedily  disappointed,  for  Powhatan  had  been 
persuaded,  much  against  his  will,  that  death  to  the 
white  men  was  the  only  protection  of  his  people ; ' '  for, ' ' 
argued  the  brother  of  Powhatan, ' '  they  have  come  here 
to  take  our  lands  from  us ;  they  have  come  to  drive  us 
from  our  homes ;  they  have  come  to  beat  us  back  from 

-^302— 


THE  INDIAN  PRINCESS 


these  shores  to  the  jungle  forests — these  pale-faced, 
evil  spirits  from  a  foreign  country." 

So  preparations  were  made  for  his  death.  The 
block  was  set,  and  the  gallant  Captain  was  brought 
forward  and  bound.  When  he  was  laid  upon  the  block 
the  tribe  gathered  in  wicked  delight,  and  with  wildest 
whoops  and  yells,  danced  round  and  round  the  unfor- 
tunate captain,  as  he  lay  prone  and  helpless. 

At  last,  the  slayers  were  appointed.  They  stood 
waiting  with  their  war-clubs  raised  high  in  the  air, 
ready  for  the  signal  that  would  settle  the  white  chief's 
doom. 

The  last  moment  of  the  dauntless  Captain  seemed  to 
have  come.  He  had  braved  the  wars  with  the  Turks 
and  he  had  been  known  on  the  seas  as  a  daring  adven- 
turer who  had  met  and  defeated  death  many  times,  but 
the  end  seemed  now  at  hand. 

In  the  midst  of  this  wild  tumult  stood  a  little  child. 
It  was  Pocahontas,  the  beautiful  Princess,  earnestly 
pleading  for  the  life  of  the  white  man. 

"He  is  my  friend,"  she  said  in  her  Indian  tongue. 
"Spare  him  for  me.  He  will  not  harm  us.  He  is  our 
friend.  He  has  come  to  bring  us  rich  trinkets  and 
gifts.  He  is  my  friend!  Don't  take  his  life.  Spare 
him  for  me." 

Angered  by  this  interruption,  the  warriors  drew 
closer  about  him,  determined  more  than  ever  upon 
their  revenge.  The  fatal  war-club  was  raised.  The 
tribesmen  were  hushed  into  an  instant's  silence.  The 
muscles  of  the  strong  shoulders  of  the  slayer  were  in 
tension,  trembling  for  the  fatal  blow. 

There  was  a  shriek  like  that  of  a  broken  heart.  The 
tribesmen  sprang  to  their  arrows.  The  enemy  must 
be  approaching !  But  no !  The  enemy  lay  bound  be- 
fore them  with  his  head  on  the  executioner's  block— 

—303— 


HERO  TALES 


and,  lying  across  his  body,  was  the  Princess  Pocahontas 
— who,  as  the  death  blow  was  about  to  fall,  had  thrown 
herself  over  its  victim. 

The  savages  muttered  in  astonishment  and  anger, 
but  fell  back  in  fear.  Piteously  the  child  pleaded  with 
Powhatan.  The  great  chief  looked  into  the  face  of  his 
daughter.  The  tribesmen  stood  awaiting  confidently 
his  sentence  of  punishment  upon  her.  His  figure  was 
erect,  and  his  deep  eyes  seemed  filled  with  emotion. 

*'It  shall  be,"  he  commanded  in  a  firm  voice  that 
rang  in  the  forests — ''as  you  will,  Pocahontas." 

The  tribesmen  were  too  bewildered  to  answer.  Only 
Opechancanough,  the  great  chief's  brother,  broke  forth 
in  anger. 

' '  I  will  have  my  revenge ! "  he  cried  and  hurried  into 
the  forests. 

So  it  was  that  Pocahontas,  the  Princess,  became  the 
first  real  friend  of  the  white  race  among  the  Indians. 
She  rapidly  took  up  their  customs  and  learned  their 
language  and  manners.  When  an  expedition  returned 
to  Old  England,  she  went  with  them  to  the  land  of  her 
dreams,  and  there  she  was  received  with  great  homage, 
and  called  by  them ' '  Lady  Eebecca. ' '  She  accepted  the 
Christian  religion,  and  sweet,  indeed,  is  the  ending  of 
this  romance  of  the  first  permanent  English  settlement 
in  America,  for  the  beautiful  Pocahontas  became  the 
bride  of  the  gallant  John  Rolfe,  a  proud  English  cav- 
alier of  the  New  America. 


—304— 


THE  TALE   OF  THE   SHIPWRECK  OFF 
THE  COAST  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  shipwrec,'; 
on  a  bitter  cold  night  off  the  New  England  coast,  and 
the  bravery  of  the  life  crew  that  plunged  into  the  stornn  to 
rescue  the  lives  of  those  who  were  cast  away  on  the  seas.    It  is  a 
tale  of  men  who  make  it  their  life  work  to  save  their  fellows  in  danger. 

IT  WAS  in  tlie  year  1892,  in  the  latter  part  of 
January,  the  month  of  bleak  skies  and  stormy 
seas.    The  Canadian  schooner,  H.  P.  Kirkham,  a 
small  vessel,  with  a  crew  of  seven,  was  plunging 
along  through  the  icy,  hill-high  waves,  oif  the  New  Eng- 
land coast,  driven  by  a  gale  of  sixty  miles  an  hour. 

In  the  dark  of  the  early  night,  the  flying  vessel 
struck  the  hidden  ''Rose  and  Crown"  shoals,  with  a 
fearful  shock.  The  stunned  lookout  was  hurled  pros- 
trate. The  masts  snapped  off  close  to  the  deck,  like 
pipe-stems,  and  were  soon  dragging  in  the  water.  The 
seas  breaking  over  the  vessel,  drenched  the  affrighted 
crew,  as  they  huddled  together  in  the  stern.  Almost  in 
despair  and  overcome  by  terror,  they  tried  to  pierce 
the  veil  of  night,  hoping  to  get  their  bearings,  but  the 
black,  raging  sea  cut  off  all  view  of  the  barren  shore 
fifteen  miles  to  the  lee. 

Gathering  courage  in  their  danger,  they  loaded  the 
little  signal  cannon. 

"Boom,"  rang  out  the  cannon's  report,  and  that 
soul-stirring  sound  that  only  the  issues  of  life  and 

—305— 


HERO  TALES 


death  can  bring  forth,  fled  shoreward  on  the  wings  of 
the  storm. 

In  the  dark  heavens,  a  red  flash  appeared  for  an 
instant,  a  message  of  cheer  and  hope  to  the  stricken 
men  on  the  little  schooner. 

A  patrolman  of  the  life-saving  station,  who  had 
been  walking  along  the  beach,  had  heard  their  wail 
of  distress,  and  had  flashed  his  signal  of  hope,  while, 
breasting  the  fierce,  cold  wind,  he  toiled  back  to  the 
station,  to  call  his  comrades. 

The  reeling  patrolman  burst  in  at  the  door  of  the 
little,  red-roofed  house  and  aroused  his  fellows.  The 
surf  men,  clad  in  sou 'westers,  hurried  out  to  duty. 
Their  duty  was  to  reach  those  seven  men  on  the 
stranded  vessel,  from  an  ice-bound  shore,  through  fif- 
teen miles  of  ice-strewn,  raging  water.  Their  duty  was 
to  bring  those  seven  souls  to  shore  and  safety,  even  if 
they  lost  their  own  lives  in  the  attempt. 

The  "Lyle"  gun,  which  shoots  a  line  out  over  the 
water  to  a  wrecked  ship,  carrying  a  breeches-buoy, 
would  not  do ;  it  carries  but  half-a-mile. 

The  regulation  surf -boat  would  not  last  ten  minutes 
in  the  tempest.  So  these  heroic  life-savers  launched 
the  big,  clumsy  life-boat,  which  has  to  be  rowed  with 
fourteen-foot  oars,  and  steered  by  another  in  the  stern. 
— It  was  not  much  like  the  modern  forty-foot  power- 
boat of  to-day,  which  is  practically  unsinkable,  and  has 
a  strong  engine  to  drive  her  against  the  sullen  waves. 

Pulling  and  tugging  at  the  long  oars,  these  men, 
with  muscular  arms  and  indomitable  hearts,  drove  the 
boat  through  the  whirling  cakes  of  ice,  over  the  tumul- 
tuous sea,  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  tempest. 

The  life-boat,  insignificant  as  a  straw  in  the  grasp 
of  the  irresistible  waves,  struggled  to  reach  the 
schooner  before  the  terrible  combers  breaking,  moun- 

—306— 


THE  SHIPWRECK 


tain-high  over  the  schooner,  ripped  the  frail  support 
from  under  the  feet  of  the  distressed  crew. 

After  hours  of  gigantic  struggle,  through  the  bitter 
wind  that  froze  the  dashing  spray,  coating  their  hands, 
faces  and  bodies  with  ice,  they  came  alongside  of  the 
wrecked  schooner. 

The  vessel  was  a  fearful  sight,  as  the  tremendous 
waves  lifted  her  high  and  dashed  her  down  with  cruel 
force  on  the  jagged  rocks.  In  her  hull  was  a  gaping 
hole,  through  which  the  water  was  gurgling  with  a 
fearful  noise.  The  deck  was  strewn  with  wreckage. 
Parts  of  the  rigging,  that  the  waves  had  not  been  able 
to  wash  overboard,  but  could  whip  around,  threatened 
the  lives  of  the  seven  terror-stricken  men  of  the  crew. 

In  the  dirty  gray  of  the  early  day,  the  little  life- 
boat was  to  be  seen  lying  alongside  of  the  wreck,  rising 
and  falling  with  the  heave  of  the  waves.  The  crew 
were  rapidly  transferred  from  the  schooner  to  the 
life-boat;  all  but  one,  who  was  raging  up  and  down  the 
deck,  stark  mad  from  fear,  overcome  by  the  terrible 
ordeal  through  which  they  had  passed ;  crying  pitifully 
that  he  would  not  trust  himself  to  that  little  eggshell 
of  a  life-boat. 

Seconds  were  precious.  The  brave  life-savers 
could  not  stay  there ;  the  schooner  at  any  moment  might 
go  down,  taking  the  life-boat  with  her.  The  captain  of 
the  life-saving  crew  fumbled  in  his  clothes,  and,  when 
the  life-boat  rose  on  the  next  comber,  he  held  in  his 
benumbed  fingers,  a  shining  revolver. 

"You  jump,"  shrieked  the  captain  above  the  noise 
of  the  tempest.    ''Jump,  or  I'll  shoot." 

These  men  were  heroes  of  the  truest  mould.  Not 
only  were  they  ready  to  risk  their  lives  to  rescue  others, 
willing  to  be  saved,  but  were  ready  to  compel  them  to  be 
saved  even  against  their  will. 

—307— 


HERO  TALES 


The  return  to  the  beach,  was  not  one  whit  less 
dangerous  than  their  outward  trip,  but  the  overloaded 
boat  was  manfully  rowed  through  the  sea. 

Twenty-three  hours  after  they  had  left  the  beach, 
in  the  dead  of  night,  the  heroic  crew  landed.  Through- 
out a  long  black  night,  and  a  whole  gray  day,  con- 
tinuously fighting  against  death,  without  a  moment's 
rest,  in  a  bitter  cold  gale,  and  in  a  temperature  of  twelve 
below  zero,  these  heroic  men  had  struggled.  And 
though  sore  and  stiff,  their  hearts  were  happy  in  the 
knowledge  of  a  noble  deed  well  done. 

''Now  boys,  stow  away  the  boat  and  get  your  sup- 
per. 'Most  time  for  sunset  patrol  to  go  out,  said  Cap- 
tain Walter  Chase,  as  he  turned  to  receive  the  kiss  of 
his  devoted  wife,  who,  through  all  the  painful  hours 
of  darkness  had  waited  sleeplessly,  offering  prayers 
for  his  safe  return.  This  was  reward  enough  for  the 
brave  captain,  but  Congress  deemed  it  fitting  to  send 
him,  and  his  crew,  medals  for  their  exceptional  bravery 
in  the  performance  of  dangerous  duty. 


"Ah,  the  godlike  stufiC  that's  moulded  in  the  maliing  of  a  manr 
It  has  stood  my  iron  testing  since  this  strong  old  world  began, 
Tell  me  not  that  men  are  weaklings  halting  tremblers,  pale  and 

slow,— 
There  is  stuff  to  shame  the  seraphs  in  the  race  of  men— I  know. 
I  have  tested  them  by  fire  and  I  know  that  man  is  great, 
And  the  soul  of  man  is  stronger  than  is  either  death  or  fate; 
And  where'er  my  bugle  calls  them,  under  any  sun  or  star, 
They  will  leap  with  smiling  faces  to  the  fire  test  of  war." 


—308— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  GALLOWS  AND  THE 
FATHER  OF  TWENTY  CHILDREN 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  father 
who  undertook  to  take  the  iaw  in  his  own   hands  to 
dethrone  a  fixed  custom  of  his  people,  to  overthrow  a  system 
that  had   been   enrooted   into  the  politics  of  his  nation,  and  who 
gave  his  life  as  the  first  sacrifce  to  a  cause   that   martyred    millions. 

IN  THE  early  days  of  our  country's  history  nearly 
every  well-to-do  American  family  in  the  North, 
as  well  as  in  the  South,  had  its  black  slaves.  In 
Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  all  the  his- 
toric American  cities,  long-established  custom  had  made 
it  the  right  of  every  white  man  to  own  blacks.  Wash- 
ington, Jefferson,  and  all  the  first  American  statesmen 
had  recognized  the  institution  of  slavery,  and  even  the 
Puritan  pastors  of  New  England  had  maintained  their 
negro  slaves  without  compunction  of  conscience. 

As  the  hearts  of  the  new  American  nation  became 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  liberty,  slavery  began  to  meet 
with  opposition,  until  there  was  a  strong  sentiment 
against  it.  Those  who  now  opposed  the  system  of  the 
times  were  closely  watched  and  branded  as  dangerous 
to  the  welfare  of  society. 

Among  those  who  created  suspicion  by  lifting  their 
voices  against  this  firmly  established  system,  was  a 
certain  man,  who  was  the  father  of  twenty  children. 
His  first  protest  brought  condemnation  upon  his  head, 
and  he  was  declared  to  be  a  '*  shiftless,  irresponsible 

—309— 


HERO  TALES 


agitator,  who  had  never  made  a  success  of  anything  in 
life."  He  appeared  before  the  public  with  an  Utopian 
plan  to  establish  colonies  for  negroes  and  to  educate 
their  children.  The  movement  gained  but  few  sympa- 
thizers at  first,  until  a  philanthropist  offered  a  hundred 
thousand  acres  of  land  in  upper  New  York  State,  for 
the  promotion  of  the  new  idea.  This  brought  many 
others  to  its  support,  and  the  name  of  the  agitator  began 
to  be  spoken  with  alternate  denunciation  and  laudation 
throughout  the  country. 

The  movement  grew  slowly  through  the  years,  but 
now  and  then  felt  the  impulse  of  some  new  convert  of 
eminence.  The  issue  became  one  of  political  moment 
in  the  fifties,  in  the  new  territory  of  Kansas  in  the 
middle  west.  Should  it  be  admitted  into  the  Union  as 
a  free,  or  as  a  slave  state?  Orators  stood  in  the  United 
States  Senate  and  argued  in  favor  of  the  sentiment  that 
was  beginning  to  agitate  the  nation;  while  others  re- 
futed them,  and  denounced  the  "anti-slavery  madness." 

' '  The  whole  world  alike.  Christian  and  Turk,  is  ris- 
ing up  to  condemn  this  wrong,  and  to  make  it  a  hissing 
to  the  nations,"  declared  Charles  Sumner,  of  Massa- 
chusetts, on  the  floor  of  the  Senate. 

"I  hold  that  every  state  of  the  Union  is  a  sovereign 
power,  with  the  right  to  do  as  it  pleases  upon  the  ques- 
tion of  slavery  and  upon  all  domestic  institutions," 
exclaimed  the  '* Little  Giant"  Douglas,  of  Illinois. 

*'A11  men  are  created  free  and  equal,"  were  the 
words  that  rang  from  the  lips  of  the  great  Lincoln. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  excitement,  on  the  six- 
teenth of  October,  in  1859,  that  the  man  who  was  the 
father  of  twenty  children,  and  who  had  been  a  leading 
agitator  of  the  movement,  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the 
great  cause,  moved  into  Harper's  Ferry,  in  conserva- 
tive old  Virginia,  with  twenty-two  followers. 

—310— 


THE  GALLOWS 


''Come  on,  boys,"  he  cried.  "Remember,  that  a 
long  life  is  not  of  so  much  concern  as  one  well  ended." 

There  was  a  drizzling  rain.  The  little  band  marched 
to  the  United  States  arsenal,  and  proclaimed  freedom 
to  the  slaves. 

"We  have  come,"  cried  their  leader,  "by  the 
authority  of  God  Almighty." 

The  citizens  were  forced  to  take  up  arms  in  self- 
protection.  The  leader  of  the  insurrection  took  quar- 
ters in  the  engine-house  and  refused  to  be  dislodged. 
United  States  troops  were  called  from  Washington,  but 
he,  with  but  six  men  remaining,  fought  desperately. 
Two  of  his  sons  had  lost  their  lives,  and  he  was  badly 
wounded,  before  he  would  surrender. 

Charged  with  treason,  he  was  given  trial  and  con- 
demned to  death.  As  he  stood  before  the  court,  he 
looked  like  a  man  of  eighty,  though  he  was  but  fifty- 
nine.  His  tall  figure  was  bent,  and  his  hair  was  whit- 
ened by  the  storms  and  tempests  through  which  he  had 
passed,  in  his  aggressive  determination  to  obtain 
freedom  for  the  slaves. 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  give  why  the  sentence  of 
this  court  should  not  be  imposed?"  asked  the  trial 
judge. 

' '  This  court  acknowledges,  as  I  suppose,  the  validity 
of  the  law  of  God,"  answered  the  old  man.  "I  see  a 
book  kissed  here  which  I  suppose  to  be  a  Bible,  or  at 
least  the  New  Testament.  That  teaches  me  all  things 
whatsoever  I  would  that  men  should  do  to  me  I  should 
do  even  so  to  them.  It  teaches  me,  further,  to  remem- 
ber them  that  are  in  bonds,  as  bound  with  them.  I 
endeavored  to  act  up  to  those  instructions.  I  say,  I  am 
yet  too  young  to  understand  that  God  is  any  respecter 
of  persons.  I  believe  that  to  have  interfered  as  I  have 
done — as  I  hav«  always  freely  admitted  I  have  done — 

—311— 


HERO  TALES 


in  behalf  of  His  despised  poor,  was  not  wrong,  but  right. 
Now,  if  it  be  deemed  necessary  that  I  should  forfeit  my 
life,  and  shed  more  of  my  blood  to  mingle  with  the  blood 
of  my  children  and  with  the  blood  of  millions  of  slaves 
whose  rights  are  disregarded  by  wicked,  cruel,  and 
unjust  enactments — I  submit;  so  let  it  be." 

The  day  of  December  second,  in  1859,  dawned.  The 
figure  of  the  old  man,  in  chains,  was  led  from  the  court- 
house steps  to  the  gallows.  As  he  passed  the  crowd,  he 
stooped  to  kiss  a  little  child  in  its  mother's  arms. 

"Have  you  any  last  word  that  you  wish  to  say?" 
asked  the  executioner. 

The  old  man  straightened ;  his  white  face  was  tense 
with  emotion. 

"God  sees,"  he  exclaimed  fervently,  "that  I  am  of 
more  use  to  hang  than  for  any  other  purpose !" 

Thus  it  was  that  John  Brown,  the  "fanatic,"  who 
was  the  first  man  to  give  his  life  to  the  doctrine  of 
abolition,  but  as  he  himself  foretold,  in  the  same  spirit 
that  Ridley  showed  in  a  similar  martyrdom,  though  his 
body  perished,  his  soul  went  marching  on. 


"John  Brown,  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die; 
And  lo!  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  harsh  old  face  grew 

mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's 

child! 

"The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart; 
And  tliey  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand,  forgave  the  loving  heart. 

Perisli  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose,  unstained  with  human  blood! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 


-312— 


THE    TALE    OF   THE   TENNESSEE   GIRL 
WHO  GUIDED  A  CAVALRY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  Southern  girl 
who  found  an  opportunity  to  help  the  cause  for 
which  her  brother  was  fighting  and  led  a  cavalry  to  the 
capture  of  an  arnny.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  chivalry  of  the  women  in 
the  North  and  South  throughout  the  great  struggle  of  American  manhood. 

IT  WAS  in  1863.  There  was  war  in  the  land.  The 
soldiers  of  the  gray  were  on  their  famous  raid 
from  Tennessee  to  Georgia,  in  pursuit  of  the 
soldiers  of  the  blue,  when  to  their  dismay  the 
fleeing  Union  forces  burned  a  bridge  after  they  had 
passed  over  it  in  safety,  and  left  their  pursuers  on  the 
opposite  side  of  a  deep  creek.  The  country  was  wild 
and  rugged.  The  pursuing  general  searched  the  banks 
for  a  place  to  cross,  but  the  stream  was  too  turbulent 
and  deep  to  allow  them  to  pass  on  horseback.  A  short 
distance  away  was  a  little  farm-house.  As  he  ap- 
proached this  humble  dwelling,  he  saluted  a  young  girl 
who  was  standing  on  the  porch. 

"Is  there  any  place  above  or  below  the  destroyed 
bridge  where  we  can  ford  or  pass  over  the  creek,"  he 
asked. 

The  southern  girl,  with  flashing  eyes  and  cheeks 
aglow,  excitedly  gave  her  directions,  emphasizing  her 
words  with  gestures.  Her  old  mother,  in  the  half-open 
doorway,  stood  peering  out  in  wonderment  at  their 
strange  visitors.    The  general  sat  with  his  leg  thrown 

—313— 


HERO  TALES 


over  the  saddle-pommel,  while  his  faithful  followers, 
weary  and  weather-worn,  were  gathered  in  groups 
along  the  roadside.  Every  moment  was  precious  to  the 
confederate  general,  and  after  further  inquiry,  wishing 
not  to  lose  a  second,  he  asked  the  maiden  if  she  would 
not  ride  with  him  and  show  the  way  to  the  ford. 

Eager  to  be  of  service  to  her  country,  she  turned  to 
her  mother,  who  was  at  first  loath  to  give  her  consent. 

"Mother,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "I  am  not  afraid  to 
trust  myself  with  so  brave  a  man  as  General  Forrest. ' ' 

"But,  my  dear,  folks  will  talk  about  you,"  said  the 
modest  woman,  with  all  the  prudence  becoming  a 
mother. 

"Let  them  talk,  I  must  go,"  cried  the  heroic  girl, 
as  she  ran  down  the  steps  and  jumped  upon  the  roots  of 
a  fallen  tree  that  stood  nearby. 

General  Forrest  brought  his  charger  to  her  side, 
and  she  grasped  the  gallant  chieftain  around  the  waist 
as  she  sprang  up  to  the  saddle  behind  him.  She  waved 
a  farewell  to  her  anxious  mother  and  instantly  they 
were  on  their  way  through  the  dense  woods.  The  ride 
was  exceedingly  difficult,  but  the  maiden  kept  her  seat 
quite  as  well  as  her  experienced  companion.  The  cruel 
undergrowth  caught  her  clothing  and  lashed  her  cheeks, 
but  the  fair  guide  did  not  heed  these  trifles  as  she  fear- 
lessly led  the  cavalry  forward.  Soon  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  ford,  but  General  Forrest's  quick  eye 
espied  the  Federal  sharpshooters  on  the  high  precipice 
opposite.    A  bullet  whistled  by  their  heads. 

"What  was  that,  General  Forrest?"  inquired  the 
girl. 

"A  bullet.  Are  you  afraid?"  replied  the  Confeder- 
ate commander. 

"No,"  she  answered  firmly. 

Still,  on  they  pressed,  as  long  as  they  could  force  a 
—314— 


THE  TENNESSEE  GIRL 


road  through  the  tangled  brambles  and  towering 
shrubs.  At  last,  they  were  obliged  to  dismount  and 
make  their  way  on  foot.  The  general  hitched  his  horse 
to  a  tree  and  followed  his  fair  guide. 

''Let  me  go  first,  for  they  would  not  fire  upon  me, 
and  they  might  fire  if  you  went,"  she  urged. 

' '  No, ' '  exclaimed  the  general  emphatically.  ' '  I  can- 
not use  a  brave  girl  for  my  protection." 

With  the  general  in  the  lead,  they  advanced  through 
the  almost  impenetrable  underbrush  to  the  ford. 
Around  them  were  falling  in  rapid  succession  the  bul- 
lets of  the  enemy,  concealed  overhead  on  the  cliffs. 
Having  reached  the  crossing  in  safety,  they  returned  to 
the  spot  where  they  had  left  the  soldiers,  who  im- 
mediately went  to  work  with  their  tools  and  soon  had 
cut  a  path  to  the  ford  wide  enough  to  admit  of  their 
passage.  When  general  Forrest  had  sent  his  company 
safely  to  the  other  side  of  the  creek,  he  returned  to  the 
girl. 

''Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you  in  return 
for  your  invaluable  services  ? "  he  inquired. 

"The  Yankees,  on  ahead,  have  taken  my  brother 
prisoner,  and  if  you  will  only  release  him,  I  shall  be 
more  than  repaid,"  replied  the  fair  young  guide. 

The  gallant  general  reached  for  his  watch,  and, 
after  gazing  at  it  for  a  moment,  he  said :  "  It  is  now  just 
five  minutes  to  eleven.  To-morrow  at  five  minutes  to 
eleven  o'clock  your  brother  shall  be  returned  to  you." 

The  girl  made  her  way  swiftly  to  her  home.  The 
Confederate  cavalry  proceeded  on  their  raid.  The 
following  morning  at  ten  o  'clock,  which  was  the  eighth 
day  of  May,  in  the  year  1863,  General  Forrest  overtook 
the  Union  forces  under  General  Streight,  in  the  vicinity 
of  Rome,  Georgia.  The  Confederate  cavalcade  was  so 
far  out-numbered  bv  its  Federal  prisoners  that  it  was 

__315_ 


HERO  TALES 


obliged  to  call  all  the  citizens  that  could  be  mustered  to 
form  a  sufficient  guard  for  them. 

As  General  Forrest  passed  along  the  lines  of  pris- 
oners, he  exclaimed:  "Is  there  a  young  man  named 
Sansom  in  the  ranks  ? ' ' 

' '  I  am  here, ' '  answered  a  voice. 

''My  lad,"  exclaimed  the  general,  ''you  are  wanted 
at  home.  You  have  just  fifty-five  minutes  to  get 
there.  Take  the  fastest  horse  in  the  command  and  do 
not  rest  a  moment  until  you  have  reached  your  sister. ' ' 

When  the  lost  brother  entered  his  home,  the  heart  of 
his  sister,  Emma  Sansom,  was  filled  with  delight. 

"I  knew,"  she  said,  "that  General  Forrest  would 
do  it.     I  knew  he  would  do  it." 

In  token  of  the  heroism  of  this  Southern  girl,  and 
her  service  to  her  army,  the  legislature  of  Tennessee 
granted  her  a  valuable  plot  of  land. 


"Roll  a  river  wide  and  strong, 

Like  the  tides  a-swinging. 
Lift  tlie  joyful  floods  of  song. 

Set  the  mountains  ringing. 
Run  the  lovely  banner  high,— 

Crimson  morning  glory! 
Field  as  blue  as  yonder  sky. 

Every  star  a  story. 

"By  the  colors  of  the  day, 

By  the  breasts  that  wear  them. 
To  the  living  God  we  pray 

For  the  brave  that  bear  them! 
Run  the  rippling  banner  high; 

Peace  or  war  the  weather. 
Cheers  or  tears,  we'll  live  or  die 

Under  it  together." 


—316— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SUBMARINE  ON  THE 
BOTTOM  OF  THE  SEA 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  submarine 
that  held  the  lives  of  its  gallant  crew  imprisoned 
on  the  bed  of  the  ocean.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  heroism  of 
modern  invention  in  which  a  young  ensign  is  shot  into  the  seas  to 
solve  the  problem  of  escape  from  the  sepulchre  that  holds  his  comrades. 

IT  WAS  a  bright  July  day  in  1909.     The  little 
submarine  boat,  Porpoise,  was  lying  at  a  dock  in 
Manila   Bay,   in  the   Philippine   Islands.     The 
United   States   Government  had   sent  the   sub- 
marine to  this  distant  port  in  the  Far  East  in  order  to 
guard  the  city,  and  to  expose  the  boat  to  the  severest 
tests. 

The  submarine  is  the  outgrowth  of  the  torpedo  boat. 
Its  swelling  sides  of  steel  are  shaped  like  a  huge  cigar. 
There  is  a  narrow  platform  on  the  top  of  the  boat,  a 
small  flagstaff,  and  a  slender  life-line  enclosing  the 
slippery  platform.  A  little  forward  of  the  center  rises 
the  conning  tower,  with  its  eyes  of  glass,  and  a  reed- 
like periscope. 

This  denizen  of  the  deep  has  become  a  terror  to  the 
modern  battleships.  Its  ability  to  sink  beneath  the  sur- 
face of  the  ocean,  creeping  upon  the  battleship,  dis- 
charging its  deadly  torpedo,  and  then  darting  back,  like 
a  flash,  out  of  the  danger  of  the  terrific  explosion  that 
follows,  has  made  it  the  modern  terror  of  the  navies  of 
the  world. 

—317— 


HERO  TALES 


A  terrible  menace  to  foes,  it  is  equally  a  menace  to 
the  daring  crews  that  man  it,  and  that  go  to  the  bottom 
of  the  seas  in  the  performance  of  their  duty.  Many  of 
these  weird  demons  of  the  deep  have  slipped  to  the 
ocean-bed,  where,  the  delicate  mechanism  being  injured, 
the  crew  have  been  imprisoned  until  merciful  death  has 
released  them  from  the  agonies  of  suffocation.  The 
dread  of  this  fate  is  always  in  the  minds  of  the  brave 
crews  as  they  go  about  their  work. 

It  was  in  the  mind  of  the  commander  of  the  Porpoise, 
as  she  slipped  her  hawser,  on  that  summer  day  in  July, 
and  started  on  a  leisurely  run  through  the  bay.  The 
other  sea-going  craft  in  the  harbor  near  Cavite  saw  the 
submarine  stop,  and,  for  several  minutes,  lie  still  in  the 
water — a  rakish-looking  craft,  indeed,  protruding  but 
a  few  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  bay,  the  United 
States  flag  fluttering  from  its  miniature  flagstaff.  Then 
the  sea-monster  began  to  sink.  Down,  down  she  went 
until  her  top  was  awash.  Now  the  flag  is  the  only  part 
in  sight.  Gradually  the  water  creeps  up  and  submerges 
the  flag,  until  all  is  out  of  sight. 

The  little  Porpoise  settled  beneath  the  waves  until 
she  was  resting  on  the  bottom  of  the  bay,  seventy  feet 
from  the  surface,  hemmed  in  by  tons  upon  tons  of  green 
sea-water.  If  now,  for  any  reason,  the  intricate  ma- 
chinery should  become  impaired,  the  fate  of  the  brave 
sailors  would  be  sealed.  The  only  object  that  could 
now  leave  the  vessel  safely  was  the  torpedo,  to  be  dis- 
charged through  the  tubes  in  the  bow. 

Standing  in  the  midst  of  his  men,  was  the  com- 
mander of  the  submarine,  stripped  to  his  underclothes, 
anxiously  studying  the  mechanism  of  the  forward 
torpedo-gun  that  was  open  from  the  inside.  At  the 
wheel,  controlling  the  mechanism  of  the  gun,  stood  a 
sailor,  ready  for  commands. 

—318— 


THE  SUBMARINE 


It  was  a  weird  spectacle — this  tragedy  beneath  the 
sea — as  the  youthful  ensign  jammed  his  broad  shoulders 
into  the  eighteen-inch  tube  and  pulled  himself  with 
great  difficulty  into  position,  clutching  the  steel  cross- 
bar on  the  outer  cap  of  the  torpedo-tube  with  an  iron 
grip.  The  inner  door  slowly  closed,  and  the  young 
ensign  was  held  a  voluntary  prisoner  in  the  narrow 
death-channel. 

''When  I  say  ready,**  he  commanded,  as  the  door 
was  closing,  "let  her  go." 

At  the  command,  the  mechanism  was  to  set  in  motion 
the  powerful  machinery  that  would  force  open  the  cap, 
against  the  terrific  pressure  of  water.  The  imprisoned 
ensign,  if  his  grip  was  strong  enough,  would  be  jerked 
out  of  the  tube  and  thrown  into  the  sea.  It  was  to  be  a 
battle  between  the  strength  of  man  and  the  inrush  of  the 
ocean.  If  his  grip  failed,  the  tremendous  pressure  of 
the  waters  rushing  into  the  tube,  would  overwhelm  him, 
shattering  his  eardrums  and  distorting  his  features. 
Moreover,  the  suction  would  send  the  water  into  his 
lungs,  causing  death  by  strangulation. 

This  is  what  the  gallant  ensign  was  willing  to  risk, 
in  the  hope  that  he  could  prove  to  the  world  that  their 
crews  could  escape  from  submerged  submarines,  in  case 
of  necessity.  Like  a  minnow  in  a  shark's  mouth,  the 
youth  lay,  ready  to  shoot  into  the  sea — a  human  torpedo. 

The  signal  was  given.  There  was  a  fearful  wrench 
on  his  arms.  The  opening  cap  jerked  him  forward. 
He  was  clear  of  the  tube.  A  great  inrush  of  water 
surged  into  the  opening. 

With  vigorous  strokes,  the  daring  ensign  shot 
through  the  fathoms  of  sea-water.  Seventy-five 
seconds  passed.  Suddenly,  on  the  surface  of  the  bay 
appeared  the  figure  of  a  man.  Eolling  over  on  his  back, 
he  lay  gasping  for  breath  and  floating  on  the  water.    It 

—319— 


HERO  TALES 


was  the  young  ensign,  and  when  his  fellow-officers 
reached  him  in  a  boat,  he  was  splashing  about  in  the 
warm  water,  thoroughly  enjoying  a  good  swim. 

This  young  hero  had  demonstrated  to  the  world  that 
the  crew  of  a  sunken  submarine  boat  need  no  longer 
stay  imprisoned  to  be  strangled  by  suffocation.  The 
problem  of  escape  had  been  solved.  All  but  one  man, 
the  one  operating  the  machinery,  can  now  be  shot 
through  the  torpedo-tube  to  the  surface  in  safety.  The 
question  of  who  is  to  be  the  ''last  man"  is  not  hard  to 
solve.  The  captain  of  a  sinking  ship  is  always  the  last 
to  leave,  and  in  the  case  of  a  submarine,  just  such  a 
commander  as  the  one  who  solved  the  problem  for  the 
sake  of  humanity  is  the  one  who  would  never  be  rescued, 
but  remain,  doomed  to  an  awful  death. 

The  daring  exploit  of  Ensign  Kenneth  Whiting 
thrilled  the  world,  and  the  tale  of  the  brave  act  was  pro- 
claimed to  the  sailors  on  every  United  States  warship, 
as  an  example  of  heroic  devotion  to  duty. 


'She's  a  floating  boiler,  crammed  with  fire  and  steam,  j 

A  dainty  toy.  with  works  .i"st  like  a  watch; 
A  weaving,   working   basketful   of  tricks,— 
A  pent  volcano,  and  stoppered  at  top-notch. 
She  is  Death  and  swift  Destruction  in  a  case 

(Not  the  Unseen,  but  the  Awful,— plain  in  sight). 
The  Dread  that  must  be  halted  when  afar; 

She's  a  concentrated,   fragile  form   of  Might! 
She's  a  daring,  vicious  thing. 
With   a  rending,   deadly   sting.— 

And  she  asks  no  odds  nor  quarter  in  the  fight!" 


—320— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SEA  FIGHTER  WHO 
CHALLENGED  THE  WORLD 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  sea  fighter 
who  warned  the  navies  of  the  world  that  while  the 
young  America  might  not  have  fighting  ships  she  had  fight- 
ing men  who  would  test  their  courage  with  any  foe  that  dared  to 
attack  the  honor  of  the  flag  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

IN  THE  year  of  1812,  on  the  eighteenth  day  of  June, 
the  new  American  republic  declared  war  for  a 
second  time  against  Great  Britain.  Old  Eng- 
land had  for  many  years  been  desperately  with- 
standing the  advance  of  the  great  Emperor  Napoleon, 
in  whose  heart  there  burned  the  ambition  to  be  the  first 
ruler  of  the  world.  The  Old- World  powers  in  their 
envy  had  tried  to  prevent  all  foreign  nations  from 
trading  with  France.  This  injured  the  commerce  of 
the  struggling  United  States,  whose  government  had 
reason  for  hostile  feeling  against  both  powers,  but 
especially  against  Great  Britain,  whose  extensive  navy 
was  molesting  American  merchant-ships. 

The  United  States  was  seeking  the  freedom  of  the 
seas,  but  did  not  possess  a  navy  strong  enough  to  gain 
it.  Outrages  on  American  ships  were  frequent. 
American  sailors  were  forcibly  taken  from  their  cap- 
tains and  impressed  into  service  on  British  war-vessels. 
Public  sentiment  in  the  United  States  was  aroused  to 
indignation.  Great  Britain  defended  its  conduct  with 
the  claim  that  it  had  a  right  to  search  foreign  ships  for 

—321— 


HERO  TALES 


deserters.  There  were  but  tweuty-two  ships  ou  the 
ocean  flying  the  American  flag,  and  fifteen  of  these  were 
too  small  to  be  of  any  service  in  war.  American  inde- 
pendence, however,  would  dare  all  the  powers  of  the 
earth,  before  it  would  tamely  endure  insult  and  injury. 

*'"We  will  never  submit  until  the  last  ship  is  sunk," 
was  the  slogan  that  inspired  the  American  populace. 
' '  We  have  upheld  our  honor  on  land  with  our  army,  and 
we  can  do  it  now  with  our  navy. ' ' 

It  was  on  the  second  day  of  August,  in  1812,  just  a 
little  more  than  six  weeks  after  war  had  been  declared, 
that  a  strong  man  in  the  uniform  of  an  American  naval 
officer  was  pacing  the  deck  of  a  warship  in  Boston  har- 
bor. There  was  a  look  of  stern  resolve  in  his  face, 
which  was  firm  and  clear-cut,  but  at  times  the  sternness 
would  give  way  to  an  expression  of  doubt  and  anxiety, 
as  if  he  were  struggling  toward  some  great  decision  in 
his  mind. 

Since  he  was  fourteen  years  of  age  he  had  been  a 
sailor,  and  had  experienced  many  adventures  in  the 
West  Indies  and  on  the  Mediterranean.  On  the  ship, 
the  deck  of  which  he  was  now  pacing,  he  had  just  won 
a  day's  race  against  an  English  war- vessel,  and  only 
about  two  weeks  before,  he  had  been  unexpectedly 
overtaken  by  four  British  fighting  frigates  near  Sandy 
Hook,  which  had  pursued  him  for  three  days  and  three 
nights. 

"It  is  not  that  I  am  afraid  to  fight,"  he  said,  *'but  it 
is  fear  that  I  may  not  be  given  an  opportunity. ' ' 

As  the  gallant  young  captain  strode  the  deck  of  his 
frigate,  he  kept  a  watchful  eye  toward  the  land,  waiting 
anxiously  for  the  orders  from  his  superior  officer  to 
allow  him  to  risk  his  ship  against  the  British  navy. 
The  orders  from  Washington  had  been  slow.  The 
government  feared  the  superior  numbers  of  the  King's 

—322— 


THE  SEA  FIGHTER 


fleet,  and  warned  its  captains  to  lie  close  to  the  shore  on 
the  defensive,  without  inviting  danger  or  combat,  ihe 
fighting  spirit  of  this  young  captain  burned  withm  him. 
He  longed  to  match  his  prowess  with  a  greater  hghtmg 

force 

''i  will  fight  without  orders,"  he  resolved,  after 
waiting  impatiently  for  many  days,  although  he  knew 
that  in  event  of  defeat,  if  he  escaped  with  his  life,  he 
would  be  shot  by  command  of  his  own  government. 

At  daylight  on  that  August  morning,  the  frigate 
Constitution  stole  out  of  Boston  harbor,  and  sailed 
northeast  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  skirting  the  coast  ot 
Nova  Scotia.  It  was  seventeen  days  later,  on  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  the  nineteenth  of  the  month,  that  it 
passed  along  the  banks  of  Newfoundland. 

' '  Clear  the  decks  for  action, ' '  ordered  the  stern  cap- 
tain, and  with  his  fifty-five  guns  loaded  for  combat,  and 
the  American  flag  flying  at  the  mast-head,  the  daring 
little  American  frigate  caught  the  wind  and  sailed  up 

the  bay.  .  ^  ,     . 

The  doughty  British  Guernere,  always  ready  tor 
fight,  accepted  the  challenge,  and  opened  its  guns  on  the 
impudent  intruder,  firing  broadside  after  broadside 

into  its  course.  •       i  • 

The  stern  captain  stood  in  command,  urging  nis 
■  crew  into  the  enemy's  fire.  ^    .-    . 

''Hold  your  guns,"  he  ordered.     "Not  a  shot  is  to 

be  wasted."  .    •       ^  a     i,  n 

The  British  ship  was  now  spitting  flame.  A  sneli 
burst  on  the  deck  of  the  Constitution.  Several  sailors 
fell  wounded  and  dead  on  the  deck. 

The  little  American  frigate  ploughed  through  the 
waters  of  the  bay,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  flaming 
cannon  of  its  adversary,  until  it  was  withm  fifty  yards 
of  the  British  Guernere,  one  of  the  most  daring  posi- 

—323— 


HERO  TALES 


tions  ever  taken  by  a  naval  officer  in  the  annals  of  sea- 
fighting. 

Boom !    Boom ! 

The  British  frigate  trembled. 

Broadside  after  broadside  burst  npon  her,  sweeping 
her  deck,  shattering  her  hull,  and  cutting  her  masts  and 
rigging  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Officers  and  sailors 
fled  in  confusion.  The  mizzen-mast  of  the  British 
frigate  fell  into  the  sea.  A  mighty  shout  went  up  from 
the  American  ship.  The  British  flag  that  had  been 
proudly  thrashing  in  the  breeze  through  fire  and  smoke, 
disappeared  from  sight. 

The  brave  British  Guerriere,  without  mast  or 
rudder,  tossed  helplessly  in  the  trough  of  the  sea. 

* '  She  is  sinking, ' '  shouted  the  sailors  on  the  Amer- 
ican Constitution. 

The  stern  captain,  still  standing  at  his  post  of  duty, 
ordered  an  officer  to  take  possession  of  the  sinking  ship. 
As  he  came  alongside,  he  asked  the  commander  of  the 
British  frigate  if  he  had  struck  his  colors. 

AVith  a  coolness  that  defied  his  victor,  he  replied : 

''I  do  not  know  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  continue 
the  engagement  any  longer." 

Seventy-nine  of  his  crew  lay  wounded  and  dead  at 
his  feet. 

''Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  have  struck 
your  colors  ? ' '  inquired  the  American  lieutenant. 

''Not  precisely,"  returned  the  British  captain, 
"But  I  don't  know  that  it  will  be  worth  while  to  fight 
any  longer." 

' '  If  you  cannot  decide,  I  will  return  aboard,  and  we 
will  resume  the  engagement,"  replied  the  American 
officer. 

"Why,  I  am  pretty  much  hors  de  combat  already," 
remarked  the  British  captain.     "I  have  hardly  men 

—32. 


THE  SEA  FIGHTER 


enough  left  to  work  a  gun,  and  my  ship  is  in  a  sinking 

condition."  -,    i  , i 

"I  wish  to  know,  sir,"  peremptorily  demanded  the 
American  officer,  "whether  I  am  to  consider  you  as  a 
prisoner  of  war  or  an  enemy.    I  have  not  time  for 

further  parley."  t    -,  - 1 

"I  believe  there  is  now  no  alternative,"  replied  the 
proud  British  commander.  "If  I  could  fight  longer,  I 
would  with  pleasure.  But,— I— must— surrender— 
myself — a  prisoner  of  war." 

The  defiant  Briton  and  his  surviving  crew  were 
taken  on  board  the  American  Constitution,  and  the 
torch  was  applied  to  his  ship.  Fourteen  men  lay 
wounded  and  dead  on  the  American  frigate. 

A  few  days  later,  the  American  Constitution,  with 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  flying  at  her  mast,  sailed  proudly 
into  Boston  harbor  with  her  prisoners  of  war,  and,  as 
the  news  swept  the  country,  there  was  great  rejoicing. 
The  American  navy  might  not  be  strong  in  fighting 
ships,  but  it  had  fighting  men  who  would  defy  death 

itself. 

"Let  England  come,"  cried  the  crowds  in  the 
streets.    ' '  We  can  whip  the  world. ' ' 

So  little  was  the  Constitution  damaged,  that  she 
afterward  engaged  in  several  thrilling  sea-fights,  and 
in  recognition  of  her  valor  was  called  "Old  Ironsides," 
by  the  American  people. 

Congress  conferred  upon  the  stern  captain  a  gold 
medal  for  his  bravery  and  he  became  a  commodore  in 
the  United  States  navy.  Many  years  later,  the  old  sea- 
fighter,  at  sixty-eight  years  of  age,  lay  on  his  death  bed. 
His  heart  burned  with  the  old  fire  of  heroism,  and  mur- 
muring, "I  strike  my  flag,"  he  fell  into  his  last  long 
sleep,  and  the  nation  mourned  its  passing  hero- 
Captain  Isaac  Hull. 

—325— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  MILL  BOY  OF  THE 
SLASHES  WHO  BECAME  A  STATESMAN 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  country  boy 
who  overcame  the  rebuffs  of  his  fellows  and  rose  by 
persistence  and  courage  to  the  Leadership  of  his  people.     It  is 
a  tale  of  triunnph  over  poverty  and  ridicule,  In  which  an  honest  pur- 
pose and  a  strong  heart  thrust  aside  all  obstacles  that  stood  in  its  path. 

IT  WAS  on  the  twelfth  day  of  April  in  the  year  of 
1777,  the  second  year  of  the  Revolutionary  War, 
that  a  boy  was  born  to  poor  parents  down  in 
Hanover  County,  in  old  Virginia.  When  the  lad 
was  but  four  years  of  age,  his  father  died,  leaving  his 
family  in  destitution.  But  the  mother  was  a  courage- 
ous woman,  and  through  this  period  of  poverty  she 
strove  to  give  her  children  a  smattering  of  an  education. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  the  boy  was  forced  to  seek  his  own 
support  by  working  in  a  retail  store,  selling  and  deliver- 
ing groceries.  Among  the  customers  in  the  country 
store  was  a  lawyer. 

"Why  don't  you  make  something  of  yourself  in  the 
world,"  he  said  one  day  as  the  lad  was  drawing 
molasses.  "There  is  a  great  chance  for  boys  in  this 
country  if  they  are  bright  and  honest  and  willing  to 
work  hard." 

"But  I  am  poor,"  said  the  lad,  "and  I  have  no 
friends." 

' '  Come  into  my  law-office, ' '  replied  the  lawyer,  * '  and 
read  my  law-books  during  your  spare  time. ' ' 

—326— 


THE  MILL  BOY 


There  were  several  young  clerks  in  the  law-office, 
well  dressed  and  with  the  average  city  boy's  good 
opinion  of  himself.  They  ridiculed  the  farmer  boy  in 
his  suit  of  Pigginy  (Virginia)  cloth,  a  mixture  of  cotton 
and  silk,  home-made,  and  laughed  at  his  coat-tails, 
which  stood  out  at  a  ludicrous  angle.  The  country  lad 
said  nothing  until  one  day  the  city  clerks  interfered 
with  his  studies.  Then  the  rebuke  that  fell  from  the 
lips  of  the  country  boy  startled  them.  The  sharp 
tongue,  backed  by  a  strong  intellect,  stung  the  city  chaps 
bitterly,  and  their  ridicule  was  changed  into  admiration. 

The  "Mill  Boy  of  the  Slashes,"  as  he  was  called, 
had  won  his  first  conquest  against  the  world. 

As  the  months'  passed,  he  mastered  the  law  as  he 
had  the  city  clerks,  and  was  soon  ready  to  practice.  He 
decided  to  go  West  with  the  tide  of  emigration,  and  in  a 
little  frontier  village  in  Kentucky  he  nailed  up  his  sign 
on  a  rough  building  near  the  courthouse. 

A  debating  society  was  formed  in  the  frontier 
village,  but  his  natural  bashfulness  did  not  allow  him 
to  enter  into  its  discussion,  until  one  night,  when  the 
question  before  the  meeting  had  been  well  thrashed  out 
and  was  about  to  be  decided,  he  remarked  in  an  under- 
tone to  one  of  his  neighbors :  "No  one  has  touched  the 
real  point  of  the  subject  yet." 

His  remark  was  overheard,  and  he  was  called  upon 
to  speak.  The  young  man,  embarrassed,  stumbled  to 
his  feet. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  stammered,  but  was 
interrupted  by  a  gale  of  laughter.  More  embarrassed 
than  ever,  he  started  again  with  the  same  address,  but 
this  time  he  did  not  halt  at  the  cries.  Soon  the  audience 
was  quiet  and  listening  attentively  to  the  liquid  flow  of 
words  from  the  young  lawyer.  Warming  to  his  sub- 
ject, he  poured  out  his  arguments  so  lucidly,  and  at  the 

—327— 


HERO  TALES 


same  time  so  passionately,  that  his  listeners  were 
astonished. 

He  was  fully  aware  of  his  great  gift  of  speech,  and, 
as  a  young  man,  he  practiced  continually,  sometimes  in 
the  woods  and  often  in  a  barn  with  horses  and  oxen  as 
an  audience.  His  law-practice  grew  by  leaps  and, 
bounds  as  his  fame  as  an  orator  spread,  and  soon  his 
reputation  was  national.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five,  he 
was  elected  to  the  Legislature,  and  became  an  ardent 
abolitionist. 

Soon  his  brilliant  speeches  carried  him  to  the 
national  Congress,  where  he  achieved  the  most  brilliant 
success  that  has  been  the  fortune  of  man  to  attain  be- 
fore or  since.  Through  various  posts  of  honor,  he  was 
finally  appointed  Secretary  of  State  under  President 
Adams,  and  held  this  important  office  for  a  number  of 
years,  serving  his  country  with  all  the  brilliancy  of  his 
great  talents. 

One  of  the  most  eloquent  speeches  ever  made  was 
delivered  by  this  remarkable  statesman.  The  occasion 
was  the  death  of  a  great  fellow-senator,  John  C. 
Calhoun.  The  Congressmen  had  gathered  for  the 
formal  ceremonies.  By  the  side  of  the  great  "Webster 
sat  the  orator.  In  the  vast  house  a  throng  were  gath- 
ered to  pay  their  last  respects  to  the  dead  Congress- 
man. The  scene  was  impressive,  but  no  one  seemed 
willing  to  rise  and  speak.  Finally,  Webster  turned 
and  looked  at  his  colleague.  Obeying  the  silent  request, 
the  "Mill  Boy  of  the  Slashes"  slowly  arose.  His  tall, 
graceful  figure  was  the  center  of  all  eyes.  He  began 
very  gently,  but  his  voice  rose  gradually  as  he  pictured 
the  earlier  scenes  of  his  friendship  with  the  dead  states- 
man. And,  as  he  drew  a  rapid  review  of  his  domestic 
relations  and  his  professional  triumphs,  the  life  blood 
began  to  push  its  way  into  the  dulled  memories  of  the 

—328— 


THE  MILL  BOY 


men  before  him;  then  the  orator's  eyes  began  to  shine 
and  his  whole  form  to  sway  gently  and  gracefully,  while 
his  tones  waxed  even  more  pathetic  and  affecting. 

Never  did  the  listening  ears  forget  the  touching  ca- 
dence with  which  he  pronounced  this  closing  eulogy: 
"He  was  my  junior  in  years — in  nothing  else." 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  empty  chair  of  the  dead 
statesman — a  moment  of  silence  intervened — then  his 
accumulated  weight  of  feeling  gushed  forth  in  one  brief 
moving  question,  as  he  gestured  toward  the  chair: 
' '  When  shall  that  great  vacancy  be  filled  ? ' ' 

The  ''Mill  Boy  of  the  Slashes"  was  now  America's 
greatest  orator.  For  more  than  fifty  years  he  served 
his  country  in  positions  of  trust  and  honor,  thrilling 
the  hearts  of  Americans  by  his  magic  words,  until 
he  became  one  of  the  best  beloved  Americans  of  his 
generation. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  June  in  1852,  that 
his  inspiring  voice  was  stilled  forever.  The  whole  na- 
tion was  grief-stricken.  Throughout  the  country,  pub- 
lic memorial  services  were  held  in  his  honor  on  the  day 
of  the  burial.  A  fellow-statesman  touched  the  hearts  of 
the  American  people  when  he  exclaimed:  "His  ex- 
ample teaches  us  that  one  can  scarcely  be  so  poor  but 
that,  if  he  will,  he  can  acquire  sufficient  education  to 
get  through  the  world  respectably" — for  such  was  the 
experience  of  Henry  Clay,  the  "Mill  Boy  of  the 
Slashes,"  who  overcame  the  world's  obstacles  and  won 
his  way  to  greatness  without  the  pomp  of  war  and  in 
the  quiet  pursuit  of  peace. 


-329- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FRONTIERSMAN  IN 
THE  GREAT  SOUTHWEST 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  frontiersman 
who  had  his  choice  between  the  liberty  of  the  forest  and 
a  home  of  wealth  and  comfort— and  chose  the  wilderness,  pre- 
ferring the  hardships  of  the  frontier  to  the  honor  and  ease  of  riches 
and  political  leadership.   It  is  a  tale  of  a  man  who  founded  a  new  republic. 

IT  WAS  down  in  Rockbridge  County,  in  Virginia. 
The  year  was  1793.  The  hearts  in  a  home  on  the 
banks  of  the  James  Eiver  had  just  been  gladdened 
by  the  coming  of  a  son.  The  father  was  intensely 
patriotic,  and  years  before  had  answered  the  call  to 
arms  in  defense  of  liberty,  winning  great  renown  for 
his  valor.  In  1807,  the  patriot  died  and  the  remainder 
of  the  family  moved  to  the  frontier  in  Tennessee.  At 
that  time  it  was  the  outpost  of  civilization,  in  the  center 
of  vast  forests,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the 
Indians.  The  boy,  now  fourteen  years  of  age,  mingled 
freely  with  the  friendly  red  men  and  soon  was  on 
familiar  terms  with  them  all.  As  he  grew  older,  he 
acted  as  clerk  of  a  trading-post,  and  taught  the  village 
school. 

The  rumble  of  war  reached  even  to  this  far  distant 
village,  and  the  son  of  the  revolutionary  warrior  rushed 
to  the  defense  of  his  country  in  the  struggle  with  Great 
Britain,  in  1812.  He  entered  the  army  as  a  private 
under  the  great  General  Jackson,  and  was  with  the 
famished  troops  at  Horseshoe  Bend,  when  the  soldiers, 

—330— 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN 


unable  to  endure  the  terrible  pangs  of  hunger,  mutinied. 
The  iron-willed  general,  with  his  left  arm  shattered  by 
a  shell,  held  a  musket  in  his  right  hand  and  sternly 
ordered  them  back  into  the  ranks,  crying,  "I  will  shoot 
the  first  man  who  disobeys!"  With  admiration  for 
their  brave  commander,  who,  like  themselves,  was  suf- 
fering from  hunger,  they  returned  to  their  duty,  de- 
termined to  fight  as  long  as  they  could  stand. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  the  young  frontiersman 
was  promoted  from  his  station  as  a  private  soldier  to 
the  rank  of  lieutenant. 

' '  I  have  decided  not  to  be  a  fighter  all  my  life,  but 
to  be  a  lawyer,"  he  said,  as  he  resigned  from  the  army. 

In  the  pioneer  country  his  rise  was  rapid,  and  at 
thirty-four  years  of  age  the  eyes  of  the  political  world 
were  upon  him,  for,  down  in  Tennessee,  he  was  estab- 
lishing a  new  system  of  government  and  ruling  as 
governor.  The  power  of  wealth  and  political  honor 
lay  at  his  feet.  Then  a  strange  rumor  passed  through 
the  country. 

"The  governor  has  disappeared.  He  has  aban- 
doned his  home  and  office  and  has  gone  into  the  South- 
west." 

Some  days  later,  in  a  forest  camp  of  the  Cherokee 
Indians,  there  appeared  a  young  man  of  strong  figure 
and  impressive  manner.  The  Indians,  struck  with  his 
valiant  bearing  and  proud  of  the  friendship  of  a  white 
man,  adopted  him  into  their  tribe.  The  call  of  the 
forests  was  in  him  and  he  could  not  resist  it.  The 
young  governor  was  now  a  part  of  the  great  Cherokee 
nation. 

One  day,  while  with  his  tribesmen,  he  left  them  to  go 
into  the  forests — and  never  returned.  Months  later,  in 
the  vast  territory  of  Texas,  the  strange  man  of  the 
wilderness  reappeared.   With  him  he  brought  his  won- 

—331— 


HERO  TALES 


derfiil  capacity  for  statecraft.  His  ability  as  a  leader 
won  him  political  eminence.  Texas  declared  her  inde- 
pendence of  Mexico,  and  at  the  head  of  the  little  Texan 
army,  marching  against  ancient  Mexico,  rode  the  same 
man  of  the  wilderness. 

Through  the  beautiful  rolling  prairies  of  Texas,  the 
Mexicans  swept,  wantonly  laying  waste  to  home  and 
property.  At  a  little  mission  church,  called  the  Alamo, 
they  trapped  a  small  band  of  Texans,  and,  hurling  four 
thousand  troops  at  the  mission,  annihilated  the  entire 
garrison,  with  brutality.  The  hearts  of  the  Texans 
throbbed  with  anger  and  resentment  at  this  cruelty  and 
the  commander  of  the  Texan  army  resolved  to  jDunish 
the  Mexicans. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  April,  in  1836 ;  the  Mexi- 
can army  advanced  on  the  city  of  Houston.  Just  out- 
side of  the  city  is  San  Jacinto,  a  great,  grassy  plain 
stretching  out  to  the  southward.  Here  the  Texan  army 
of  eight  hundred  sturdy,  determined  men  awaited  the 
approaching  Mexicans.  Across  the  single  bridge,  the 
only  means  of  entrance  to  the  field,  thundered  the 
Mexican  army,  fifteen  hundred  strong.  With  banners 
flying,  and  bands  playing,  they  crossed  to  the  San 
Jacinto. 

When  they  were  all  across,  a  band  of  volunteer 
Texans  destroyed  the  bridge,  cutting  off  their  escape. 
The  small  army  of  enraged  Texans  now  rose  in  its 
wrath.  Led  by  the  frontier  commander,  they  rushed 
upon  the  Mexicans.  '* Remember  the  Alamo!"  roared 
the  Texans,  as  they  sprang  to  the  attack.  The  cry 
struck  fear  into  the  hearts  of  the  guilty  Mexicans. 
They  cowered  at  the  sight  of  the  thin  line  of  infuriated 
soldiers,  but  their  general,  striking  to  the  right  and 
left  with  his  sword,  forced  them  to  rally  and  face  the 
fire. 

—332— 


THE  FRONTIERSMAN 


In  the  thick  of  the  battle  was  the  brave  frontiers- 
man, fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  his  men,  like  a 
whirlwind ;  now  here,  now  there,  as  the  tide  of  the  battle 
swung  from  one  point  to  another.  All  through  that  fierce 
combat  he  struggled,  wounded  but  still  leading  his  men. 

The  Mexicans  turned  to  flee.  Their  escape  was  cut 
off,  and  their  general  was  forced  to  surrender.  The 
closing  battle   of   the  war  for  independence   ended. 

The  Texans  were  thrilled  with  triumph.  A  new 
republic  was  established  and  the  first  president  was  the 
man  of  the  frontier,  who  had  "avenged  the  Alamo." 
The  worshipping  Texans  called  him  the  "George  Wash- 
ington" of  the  new  republic,  and  elected  him  to  their 
highest  office.  When,  in  1845,  Texas  was  taken  into  the 
sisterhood  of  the  United  States,  their  president  was 
sent  to  Washington  as  Senator,  where  he  served  his 
state  with  great  brilliancy  and  fidelity.  Then,  when  the 
secession  of  Texas  from  the  American  Union,  became  a 
political  question,  his  violent  opposition  to  this  course, 
and  his  love  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  soon  made  him 
a  host  of  enemies  in  his  own  state,  and  he  was  recalled 
from  Washington  to  his  home  in  Huntsville,  in  Texas. 

The  old  man,  battle-scarred  in  the  service  of  his 
state,  lay  tossing  on  his  bed,  ill  unto  death.  It  was  on 
the  twenty-fifth  of  July,  1863.  The  end  was  approach- 
ing rapidly.  Around  the  bedside  were  his  family  and 
loyal  friends.  The  tall,  gaunt  figure,  emaciated  by 
disease,  stirred.    His  lips  trembled :  ' '  Texas !  Texas ! ' ' 

General  Samuel  Houston,  the  hero  of  San  Jacinto, 
the  soldier,  the  brilliant  statesman,  the  fearless 
frontiersman,  who  loved  the  life  of  the  wilds,  but  who 
loved  better  the  service  of  his  country,  was  dead. 
Texas  mourned  him  as  her  foremost  patriot,  pioneer, 
and  citizen,  all  the  more  because  of  the  humiliation  to 
which  she  had  subjected  him  in  her  moment  of  passion. 

—333-- 


THE   TALE    OF   THE    GIRL   PILOT    ON 
THE  MISSISSIPPI  RIVER 


This  Is  the  tale  of  womanhood 
that  triumphed  over  the  courage  of  men  and  paid  the 
price  with  life,    it  is  a  tale  of  an  unknown  girl,  who,  when  a 
ship  was  in  flames  and  the  pilot  deserted  his  post,  rushed  to  the 
wheel  and   directed   its  course  to  the  river  bank  in  a  furnace  of  fire. 

IT  WAS  a  bright  afternoon  in  May,  in  the  year  of 
1852,  when  the  side-wheeler,  Charles  Belcher, 
swung  from  its  dock  in  St.  Louis  and  steamed 
down  the  Mississippi  River  for  New  Orleans.  She 
was  a  gay  looking  boat,  decked  out  in  bunting  and  flags, 
her  white  sides  and  gold-banded  smoke  stacks  gleaming 
in  the  sunlight.  On  the  deck,  pacing  up  and  down,  was 
Captain  Cutler.  This  was  the  first  trip  of  the  Charles 
Belcher,  and  the  captain  determined  to  make  it  a  record 
trip,  to  reduce  the  time  between  St.  Louis  and  New 
Orleans  by  five  hours.  Every  big  steamer  on  the 
Mississippi  at  that  time  carried  several  barrels  of  rosin 
to  be  used  as  fuel  in  emergencies,  such  as  racing  a 
steamer  of  an  opposition  line,  or  fighting  the  storms 
when  a  large  head  of  steam  was  required. 

Down  past  the  wooded  banks  she  flew.  In  the  engine- 
room  the  firemen  were  mixing  rosin  with  every  shovel- 
ful of  coal.  The  flames  roared  through  the  flues.  The 
weight  on  the  safety-valve  had  been  moved  almost  to 
the  danger  mark  and  the  valves  shrieked  out  their  pro- 
tests against  such  folly,  but  the  passengers  had  become 

—334— 


THE  GIRL  PILOT 


excited,  for  a  race  was  on  with  the  Ben  Franklin,  which 
had  left  St.  Louis  two  hours  ahead  of  them,  and  they 
did  not  heed  the  warning.  Nearer  and  nearer  they 
pressed  to  the  Ben  FranMin,  and  at  dark,  rounding  a 
bend  in  the  river,  they  could  see  the  flying  boat  only 
just  ahead  of  them.  The  excitement  became  intense. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  Charles  Belcher  passed  her  rival, 
and  the  passengers  cheered  the  new  boat  and  her  cap- 
tain for  the  victory,  and  prepared  for  a  dance  on  the 
deck  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 

Piled  high  on  the  deck  above  the  boilers  was  a  pile 
of  carriage  wheels,  with  straw  wedged  in  between  them 
in  order  to  protect  the  varnish.  Among  them  a  blazing 
spark  from  the  streaming  smokestacks  lodged,  and  soon 
the  little  flames  were  licking  their  way  over  the  deck, 
looking  for  fresh  fuel. 

In  the  cabin,  in  the  midst  of  gay  dancers,  Captain 
Cutler  was  executing  a  ''buck-and-wing"  movement  of 
a  quadrille.  Suddenly,  an  alarm  rang  out,  and  in  the 
doorway  appeared  the  figure  of  a  woman  in  her  night- 
clothes,  crying,  *'Fire!" 

At  the  sound,  the  women  huddled  together  in  terror, 
or  ran  up  and  down  without  reason.  Men,  crazed  with 
fear,  wrenched  doors  from  the  cabins,  and  throwing 
them  overboard  leaped  after  them,  only  to  be  cut  in 
pieces  by  the  paddle-wheels,  or  engulfed  in  the  wake  of 
the  racing  steamer.  The  engines  were  working  at  full 
speed,  with  the  engineer  dead  at  his  post.  The  wheel 
in  the  pilot  house  was  deserted.  Captain  Cutler  was 
assuring  the  passengers  that  they  would  be  saved,  and 
endeavoring  to  restrain  the  frenzied  women  from 
throwing  themselves  overboard.  More  than  three 
hundred  persons  were  on  board,  and  though  the  boat 
was  running  wild,  with  no  one  at  the  wheel,  not  one  man 
offered  to  go  through  the  wall  of  flame  and  take  charge 

—335— 


HERO  TALES 


of  the  wheel.  On  the  edge  of  the  panic-stricken  crowd 
stood  a  beautiful,  young  girl,  gazing  up  at  the  raging 
fire  which  was  encircling  the  wheel-house. 

At  her  side,  seated  on  a  bale  of  cotton,  was  her 
father,  an  aged,  crippled  man.  The  girl  bent  over  him 
and  shouted  in  his  ear.  He  clutched  her  hand  and  bent 
forward.  The  young  girl  kissed  him,  and  disappeared. 
A  moment  later,  a  blast  of  wind  parted  the  smoke,  and 
then  the  frightened  passengers  saw  at  the  wheel  a  young 
girl  standing,  dressed  in  white,  and  with  streaming 
hair.  With  a  sure  hand,  she  directed  the  course  of  the 
blazing  vessel  toward  the  shore. 

Presently  she  struck.  The  shock  of  the  impact  was 
terrific.  A  few  men  and  women  leaped  to  the  bank,  but 
the  ship's  stern  was  in  deep  water,  and  the  current  soon 
swung  her  around,  and  the  wind  blew  back  the  flames 
upon  her  hapless  passengers,  many  of  whom  perished, 
among  them  the  girl  who  had  faced  death  in  order  to 
save  others.  Half  an  hour  afterward  the  Ben  Franklin 
came  up  to  the  blazing  wreck  and  saved  those  who  had 
leaped  ashore.  Out  of  three  hundred  and  twenty 
passengers  but  seventy-six  were  saved. 

The  mystery  surrounding  the  identity  of  the  heroic 
girl,  who  sacrificed  her  life,  and  left  her  feeble,  old 
father,  never  to  return,  for  the  sake  of  her  fellow- 
men  and  women,  was  never  cleared,  though  her  act  of 
heroism  will  go  down  forever  in  the  history  of  the 
Mississippi  Eiver. 


"When  all  our  hopes  are  gone 
'Tis  well  our  hands  must  still  keep  toillDg  on 

For  other's   sake. 
For  strength  to  bear  is  found  in  duty  done, 

And  he  is  blest  indeed  who  learns  to  make 
The  joy  of  others  cure  his  own  heart-ache." 

—336— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  BAYONET  BRIGADE 
THAT  CHARGED  A  FORT  IN  THE  NIGHT 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  bayonet  brigade 
who  plunged  through  the  darkness  up  to  their  enenny's 
stronghold  and  won  a  great  victory.    It  is  the  tale  of  a  wounded 
warrior  who  wanted  to  die  at  the  head  of  his  troops  and  ordered 
his  men  to  carry  him  on  their  shoulders  in  the  front  of  the  columns. 

IT  WAS  the  fifteenth  day  of  July  in  1779,  while  the 
Americans  and  English  were  struggling  for 
supremacy.  The  American  troops  were  stationed 
in  front  of  Stony  Point,  among  the  hills  of  New 
York.  The  fort  at  the  top  of  the  point  was  occupied  by 
the  English  soldiers,  and  was  strongly  fortified.  The 
frowning  guns  flashed  their  reflections  in  the  bright 
light  of  the  sun. 

As  night  came  on,  the  Americans  at  the  base  of  the 
long,  tortuous  path  quietly  prepared  for  the  assault  on 
the  almost  impregnable  stronghold.  A  negro,  who  had 
been  selling  strawberries  to  the  English  officers,  had 
obtained  their  countersign  and  given  it  to  the  American 
commander.  Up  the  hill  the  Americans  were  clamber- 
ing, quietly,  not  making  a  sound  to  warn  the  unsus- 
pecting soldiers  above. 

The  negro,  in  the  lead,  suddenly  came  upon  a  British 
sentinel,  and,  giving  the  countersign,  engaged  the 
Englishman  in  conversation  and  was  laughing  and 
chatting,  when,  out  of  the  darkness,  arms  clasped  the 
soldier,  and  he  was  bound  and  gagged. 

—337— 


HERO  TALES 


A  rugged  man  of  strong  features  stood  in  command 
of  the  Americans,  and  formed  his  men  in  two  divisions 
for  the  final  struggle.  With  unloaded  guns,  and  bay- 
onets fixed,  the  soldiers  silently  labored  up  the  steep 
and  narrow  path. 

A  flash  of  light  came  out  of  the  darkness.  An  Eng- 
lish picket  had  discovered  them,  and  gave  the  warning. 
With  a  fierce  cry,  the  rugged  American  led  his  men  in 
the  charge  up  the  steep  hill. 

A  sheet  of  flame  flashed  from  the  fort  above.  There 
was  a  piercing  cry.  The  brave  commander  fell  to  the 
ground. 

"Carry  me  on  your  shoulders,"  he  ordered  his 
aides,  ''that  I  may  die  at  the  head  of  the  column!" 

In  the  face  of  a  withering  fire,  the  brave  Americans 
struggled  up  the  hill.  Men  were  dropping  on  all  sides, 
but  still  the  survivors  kept  on  in  their  desperate  assault. 
The  cannon  of  the  British  swept  the  sides  of  the  hill, 
with  their  fearful  discharges  of  grape  and  shell. 

The  clash  of  bayonets  mingled  with  the  shouts  of 
men.  The  brave  Americans  reached  the  top  of  the  long, 
steep  hill,  and,  cheered  on  by  their  wounded  commander, 
they  rushed  at  the  fort.  Their  onslaught  was  irre- 
sistible. A  deafening  shout  told  the  wounded  general 
that  the  fort  was  won.  The  entire  garrison  of  British 
soldiers  were  prisoners,  and,  despite  the  fearful  fire  of 
the  defenders  of  the  fort,  the  American  loss  was  but 
fifteen  killed  and  eighty-three  wounded. 

The  rugged  commander,  though  severely  wounded, 
recovered  and  served  his  country  throughout  the  strug- 
gle for  liberty.  His  brilliant  exploits  placed  him  in 
an  enviable  position  in  history,  as  one  of  the  bravest 
patriots  who  offered  his  services  and  life  in  the  fight  for 
independence — the  rugged  Anthony  Wayne,  whose 
reckless  daring  gave  him  the  name  of  ' '  Mad  Anthony. ' ' 

—338— 


THE  TALE   OF    THE    POOR    INVENTOR 
WHO  MADE  THE  WORLD  RICH 


This  is  tlie  tale  of  a  poor  inventor 
who  was  spurned  by  his  generation  and  called  an  im- 
practical dreamer,  but  who  laid  the  foundation  upon  which  the 
nations  of  the  earth  were  brought  together  in  a  great  brotherhood 
of  trade  and  then  died  in  poverty,  to  be  buried   in  an  unmarked  grave. 

IT  WAS  in  the  days  when  the  great  oceans  which 
cover  more  than  three-fifths  of  the  earth's  surface 
were  little  known,  except  by  the  few  adventurous 
men  who  cast  away  from  the  shores  on  sailing 
vessels  at  the  mercy  of  the  tide  and  the  winds.    The 
continents  were  many  months  apart  and  the  journey 
was  made  hazardous  by  the  tempest  at  sea. 

It  was  during  the  time  when  the  new  American  race 
was  beginning  to  pursue  the  arts  of  peace  with  the  same 
indomitable  energy  that  had  conquered  in  its  wars.  A 
man,  straight  as  an  arrow,  six  feet  and  two  inches  tall, 
thin  and  ungainly,  with  jet  black  hair,  eyes  dark  and 
peculiarly  piercing,  and  a  temper  quick  and  stubborn, — 
passed  through  the  streets  of  New  York. 

''Do  you  see  that  manf"  exclaimed  a  prominent 
financier  of  the  day.  "He  is  a  crank.  He  has  a  fool 
idea  in  his  head  that  the  sails  and  oars  can  be  taken  out 
of  boats  and  that  he  can  make  them  run  with  a  steam- 
kettle."    His  hearers  laughed  and  scoffed. 

"The  man  is  crazy,"  was  the  response.  "He  ought 
to  be  locked  up,  or  he'll  be  doing  himself  harm.'* 

—339— 


HERO  TALES 


A  few  months  later,  in  1775,  a  strange  craft,  puffing- 
smoke  from  a  tall  stack,  weirdly  scooted  over  the 
waters  of  a  small  stream  in  Pennsylvania ;  and,  shortly 
after,  this  strange  man  stood  before  the  legislature  of 
that  state  applying  for  a  loan  of  150  pounds. 

"With  this  money,"  he  said,  "I  am  of  the  opinion 
that  a  vessel  can  be  built  that  can  be  propelled  by  the 
power  of  escaping  steam,  six  or  eight  miles  per  hour, 
which  would  make  the  Mississippi  as  navigable  as  tide- 
water and  the  vast  territory  on  those  waters  a  source 
of  untold  wealth  to  the  United  States.  Should  I  sug- 
gest that  the  navigation  between  this  country  and  Eu- 
rope may  be  made  so  easy  as  to  shortly  make  us  the 
most  populous  empire  on  the  earth,  it  probably  at  this 
time  would  make  you  laugh,  but  I  believe  it  to  be  true. 

The  wiseacres  of  the  legislature  laughed  aloud  and 
jibed  him  with  sharp  retorts. 

Not  long  after,  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  August, 
1787,  a  crowd  of  men,  women  and  children  gathered  on 
the  banks  of  the  Delaware  River.  Among  them  were 
all  the  members  of  the  convention  for  framing  the 
Federal  Constitution,  except  General  Washington. 

The  same  tall,  gaunt  figure  stood  in  a  peculiar  craft 
floating  in  the  river,  from  which  puffed  clouds  of  smoke. 
There  was  a  whiff  of  steam.  The  crude  paddle-wheels 
began  to  move  and  the  odd,  multi-legged  boat  began 
walking  on  the  water.  The  crowd  on  the  shore  were 
astounded. 

"It  never  can  be  made  practical,"  said  a  statesman. 

"A  man  is  foolhardy  to  risk  his  life  in  such  a  con- 
trivance," said  another. 

'  *  The  propelling  of  a  boat  by  steam  is  as  new  as  the 
rowing  of  a  boat  by  angels,"  exclaimed  the  eccentric 
inventor,  when  asked  where  he  got  such  a  weird  idea, 
"and  I  can  claim  the  first  thought  and  invention  of  it. 

—340-^ 


THE  POOR  INVENTOR 


Although  the  world  and  my  country  do  not  thank  me 
for  it,  yet  it  gives  me  heartfelt  satisfaction.  This,  sir, 
wiii  be  the  ultimate  mode  of  crossing  the  Atlantic, 
whether  I  bring  it  to  perfection  or  not,  for  packets  and 
armed  vessels." 

As  the  gaunt  figure  appeared  on  the  streets,  he  met 
the  jeers  and  taunts  of  the  crowd. 

"Never  mind,  boys,"  he  shouted,  "The  day  will 
come  when  all  our  great  lakes,  rivers  and  oceans,  will 
be  navigated  by  vessels  propelled  by  steam. ' ' 

It  was  in  the  year  1796.  A  crowd  gathered  about  the 
waters,  then  known  as  "Collect  Pond,"  where  the 
Tombs  prison  now  stands  in  the  city  of  New  York. 
This  same  tall,  slim  figure,  stood  in  the  stern  of  a 
strange  craft  that  ran  around  the  water,  puffing  and 
fuming.  The  throng  laughed  and  hooted.  Business 
men  shook  their  heads  and  turned  away. 

"  It  is  wonderful, ' '  they  said, ' '  but  it  cannot  be  made 
practical." 

The  disappointed  inventor  came  to  the  shore,  and, 
as  he  passed  down  the  street,  jeers  and  taunts  followed 
him.  Months  later  found  the  strange  craft  still  lying 
in  the  mud  on  the  bank  of  the  pond,  left  to  decay,  and 
piece  by  piece  it  was  carried  away  by  the  children. 

A  few  months  later  found  the  gaunt  man  down  in 
Kentucky,  where  years  before  he  had  his  first  dreams 
of  revolutionizing  the  world  by  the  power  of  steam.  He 
walked  into  the  blacksmith  shop  where  some  of  his 
first  models  were  hammered  out.  The  villagers  taunted 
him  about  his  strange  notions. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,"  although  I  may  not 
live  to  see  the  time  when  steam  will  propel  the  vast 
majority  of  our  ships,  you  will." 

As  he  went  out  of  the  shop,  one  of  the  villagers 
shook  his  head. 

—341— 


HERO  TALES 


"Poor  fellow,"  he  said,  "What  a  pity  that  he  is 
crazy ! ' ' 

"All  I  ask  in  this  world  now  is  a  place  to  lay  my 
head,"  said  the  wan  and  wearied  man  as  he  entered 
the  tavern.  "The  only  thing  that  I  own  on  earth  is  a 
tract  of  land.  I'll  give  you  half  of  it  if  yon  will  give 
me  enough  to  eat  as  long  as  I  live." 

Years  before,  in  early  youth,  he  had  been  married, 
but  in  the  wild  pursuit  of  his  ambitious  schemes,  he 
had  become  separated  from  his  family.  A  messenger 
came  from  his  wife  in  Connecticut,  telling  him  that  her 
father  had  died  and  left  her  his  money,  and  urging  him 
to  return. 

"I  promise  to  maintain  you  like  a  gentleman  for 
life, ' '  she  wrote.    In  his  pride  he  stoutly  refused. 

"I  am  contented,"  he  said.  "The  day  will  come 
when  some  powerful  man  will  get  fame  and  riches  from 
my  invention. ' ' 

A  messenger  came  to  him  from  the  King  of  Spain. 

"I  will  give  you  riches  for  your  invention,"  he  said, 
"for  the  sole  and  exclusive  use  of  my  master,  the  King 
of  Spain." 

"No,"  replied  the  inventor,  firmly.  "If  there  is 
any  glory  or  profit  in  my  invention,  my  countrymen 
shall  have  the  whole  of  it. ' ' 

One  day,  late  in  June,  in  1798,  the  strange,  gaunt 
man  was  found  dead  in  the  little  village  of  Bardstown, 
in  Kentucky.  The  tavern-keeper,  alone,  carried  the 
body  to  the  meadows,  where  it  was  laid  under  the  sod, 
in  an  unmarked  grave. 

It  was  about  nine  years  later  that  the  world  was 
startled  by  the  news  that  a  boat  propelled  by  steam  had 
successfully  passed  up  the  Hudson  River,  and  that  the 
science  of  steam  navigation  had  been  solved,  a  miracle 
beyond  the  power  of  human  mind  to  comprehend.    The 


THE  POOR  INVENTOR 


tall,  gaunt  man  was  vindicated — poor  John  Fitcli.  The 
weird,  elastic  power  of  mere  vapor  had  moved  the  world 
along  at  a  pace  a  thousand  fold  more  rapid  than  before 
its  discovery.  It  took  a  second  genius,  the  great  Robert 
Fulton,  to  make  it  practical  and  permanent,  and 
through  him  the  ''crazy  notion"  of  John  Fitch  has 
become  one  of  the  greatest  powers  of  the  earth,  by 
which  the  nations  of  the  world  are  to-day  exchanging 
their  produce  and  merchandise  at  the  rate  of  seventy 
million  dollars  a  day. 

This,  then,  is  the  tale  of  the  ''unpractical"  man  who 
had  the  courage  to  face  the  rebuffs  of  his  "practical" 
contemporaries,  and  who  closed  his  life  in  discourage- 
ment and  tragedy,  knowing  that  the  world  would  be- 
come the  everlasting  heir  to  his  genius. 


"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies; 
Thy  genius  commands  thee;  with  rapture  behold, 
While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendor  unfold! 
Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time. 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name, 
Be  freedom,  and  science,  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

"Thy  fleet.5  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire  and  the  ocean  obey; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold. 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices  and  gold. 
As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splendor  shall  flow. 
And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow; 
While  the  ensign's  union,  in  triumph  unfurled. 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war  and  give  peace  to  the  world." 


—343— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TRAPPER  IN  THE 
WILDS  OF  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  trapper 
who  led  the  precursors  of  civilization  through  the  forests 
and  fought  back  savagery  to  blaze  the  path  for  the   march  of 
American   progress.     It  is  a  tale  of  the  rover  of  the  wilderness  and 
hunter  of  beasts  who  gave  to  his  country  the  best  there  was  in  him. 

IT  WAS  in  the  year  of  1809,  the  birth-year  of  so 
many  of  our  famous  men,  that  the  boy  in  this  tale 
was  born,  down  in  Kentucky.  One  year  later  the 
parents  carried  the  infant  to  far-off  Missouri, 
then  but  a  dense  forest.  The  father  of  the  family  was 
a  skilled  trapper  and  hunter,  and  the  boy  early  learned 
the  ways  of  the  wild  animals  of  the  forests  and  the 
equally  wild  Indians.  Tales  of  his  adventures" in  his 
early  youth  have  come  down  the  ages  and  now,  more 
than  a  hundred  years  later,  they  are  as  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  youth  as  they  were  then. 

At  seventeen  years  of  age,  this  lad  joined  a  party 
of  traders,  and  passing  through  many  perils,  journeyed 
over  the  routes  bordered  with  hostile  Indians,  to  old 
Santa  Fe,  in  New  Mexico,  the  most  ancient  city  in  the 
United  States.  The  young  trapper  here  learned  the 
Spanish  language. 

In  the  following  Spring,  he  engaged  himself  as  a 
teamster  to  a  company  of  traders  bound  for  El  Paso,  in 
Texas ;  and  later  joined  a  band  of  trappers  who  had  just 
arrived  from  the  interior,  where  they  had  been  driven 

—344— 


THE  TRAPPER 


away  from  their  hunting-grounds  by  Indians.  They 
determined  to  organize  a  larger  company,  and  return, 
to  the  country  from  which  they  had  been  expelled,  with 
the  double  purpose  of  chastising  the  Indians  and  to 
trap  the  beaver.  This  nineteen-year  old  lad  was  chosen 
as  their  leader. 

The  scenes  through  which  he  passed,  no  boy  of  to-day 
can  ever  witness.  His  personal  bravery  and  ability  as 
a  leader  soon  placed  him  in  command  of  a  hunting  ex- 
pedition ;  and,  beset  with  peril  from  Indians  and  wild 
animals,  he  led  his  band  of  rugged  hunters  through 
the  wilds  of  the  western  forests. 

It  was  while  acting  as  a  hunter  for  the  soldiers  at 
Bent's  Fort  that  he  married.  Then  a  daughter  came 
to  brighten  the  solitude  of  his  life. 

One  day  word  came  to  his  wife  that  he  was  lying  ill 
in  a  settlement  a  hundred  miles  away  in  the  Indian's 
country.  Her  great  love  for  her  husband  impelled  her 
to  mount  a  horse  and  go  to  his  side  to  nurse  him  back 
to  strength,  but  the  hardships  of  the  journey  proved 
too  much  for  her  delicate  strength  and  she  sickened  and 
died. 

The  trapper  was  heart-broken.  He  resolved  that 
his  daughter  should  have  a  good  education  and  culture, 
and  when  the  girl  was  but  five  years  old,  he  took  her 
to  Saint  Louis.  His  fame  as  an  Indian  fighter  and 
hunter  had  long  before  reached  the  trading-posts,  and 
here  he  found  himself  the  center  of  an  admiring  group, 
but  the  call  of  the  wild  was  stronger  than  the  lure  of 
civilization,  and  he  carried  his  burdened  heart  back  into 
the  solitudes  of  the  wild  country. 

His  trip  to  Saint  Louis  had  been  the  turning-point 
in  his  life.  He  had  met  and  become  a  warm  friend  of 
Lieutenant  John  C.  Fremont,  a  United  States  army 
officer,  who  had  been  sent  into  the  West  to  explore  and 

—345— 


HERO  TALES 


map  the  wild  country.  Fremont  had  requested  the 
hunter  to  guide  his  expedition,  and  this  he  did,  in  May, 
1842.  The  little  band  of  men,  surmounting  all  manner 
of  obstacles,  marching  through  the  hostile  Indian 
country,  toiling  through  pathless  forests,  and  scaling 
high  precipices,  finally  reached  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
During  the  journey,  the  guide's  popularity  had  been 
undermined  by  his  jealous  fellow-trappers,  and  Fre- 
mont left  him  behind  when  he  mounted  the  highest 
peak  in  that  fearful  range  of  mountains. 

The  trapper  returned  to  New  Mexico,  built  himself 
a  house  and  settled  down.  Fremont  returned  to  Saint 
Louis,  to  receive  great  honors  from  the  Government. 
But  in  the  heart  of  the  guide  there  was  no  malice.  Wlien 
he  heard  that  Fremont  was  to  set  out  again  through  a 
more  dangerous  country,  the  trapper  hurried  through 
desert  and  prairie  to  meet  his  old  commander.  Fre- 
mont joyfully  received  him,  and,  though  the  trapper 
had  not  expected  to  join  the  expedition,  he  gladly  con- 
sented to  guide  the  party. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Mexican  war,  he  fought  in 
the  ranks,  and  not  one  of  all  the  army  surpassed  him 
in  bravery.  The  Government,  recognizing  his  ability, 
called  him  to  Washington,  and  appointed  him  as  Indian 
Agent  in  that  great  Southwestern  country  that  he  knew 
so  well.  The  people  of  the  national  capital  lionized 
him,  and  his  modesty  forced  him  to  flee  to  his  new  post 
in  New  Mexico,  where  he  performed  many  important 
services  to  the  United  States  in  conciliating  and  sub- 
duing savage  Indians. 

When  the  ''call  to  arms'*  resounded  through  the 
country  in  1861,  among  the  first  to  answer  was  the 
trapper  of  the  Southwest.  Short  of  stature,  slender  of 
limb,  with  a  fair,  clear-cut  face,  and  a  mild  and  quiet 
expression, — he  was  always  on  the  firing-line  in  the 

—346— 


THE  TRAPPER 


moment  of  danger.  His  gallant  behavior  earned  him 
promotion.  He  rose  rank  by  rank,  until,  at  the  close 
of  the  war,  the  trapper  of  the  wilderness,  in  whose 
heart  there  was  no  enmity,  had  become  a  brigadier- 
general — and  the  name  of  Christopher  Carson,  better 
known  as  ''Kit"  Carson,  will  always  remain  in  the 
tales  of  the  American  frontier  as  one  of  the  most  in- 
trepid pioneers  that  ever  stood  on  the  outposts  of 
civilization  in  those  days  when  hardship  and  suffering 
were  carrying  the  American  flag  into  the  Southwest. 


"Hats  ofif! 
Along  the  street  there  comes 
A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 
A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky. 
Hats  off! 
The  flag  is  passing  by! 

"Sea  fights  and  land  fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  to  save  the  state; 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships; 
Cheers  of  A-ictory  on  dying  lips; 

"Days  of  plenty,  and  years  of  peace, 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase; 
Equal  justice,  right,  and  law. 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe; 

"Sign  of  a  Nation,  great  and  strong, 
To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong; 
Pride,  and  glory,  and  honor,  all 
Live  in  tlie  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 

"Hats  off! 
Along  the  street  there  comes 
A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums; 
And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high. 
Hats  off! 
The  flag  is  passing  by!" 


—U7- 


THE  TALE  OF  A  THOUSAND  HORSEMEN 
THAT  ENCIRCLED  A  SLEEPING  ARMY 


This  is  the  tale  of  "Boots  and  Saddles" 
In  the  Virginia  Valley;  the  tale  of  nnore  than  a  thousand 
cavalrymen,  who,  in  their  grit  and  determination,  rode  completely 
around  the  qreat  army  of  the  foe  while  it  slept  on  its  arms,  in  more 
than  forty-eight  hours  of  the  most  gallant  daring    and    horsemanship. 

IT  WAS  the  twelfth  day  of  June,  in  1862.  The  two 
armies,  the  Federal  and  the  Confederate,  were 
resting  before  Eichmond,  after  the  battle  of 
"Fair  Oaks,"  like  two  bull-dogs,  too  tired  and 
exhausted  to  longer  fight,  but  with  energy  enough  left 
for  an  occasional  growl.  The  Union  general  had 
pushed  the  Confederates  across  the  Chickahominy 
Eiver,  and  was  resting  his  army,  after  their  fearful 
struggles,  in  order  to  again  engage  the  foe. 

In  the  Confederate  camp  was  a  daring  cavalryman. 
His  spirited  war-horse  pranced  along  the  line  of  resting 
troopers.  The  men  of  the  South  are  ''born  to  the 
saddle,"  and  finer  horsemen  never  mounted  a  charger. 
It  was  a  beautiful  summer  afternoon.  The  clarion 
trill  of  a  bugle  sounded  on  the  drowsy  air. 

''Boots  and  Saddles!"  exclaimed  a  tired  cavalry- 
man, as  he  jumped  to  the  side  of  his  horse. 

The  restless  horses,  champing  their  bits,  pawed  at 
the  ground.  Again  the  shrill  call  rang  out,  and  the 
beating  hoofs  of  the  cavalry  horses  echoed  along  the 
river  bank. 

—348— 


A  THOUSAND  HORSEMEN 


''Goodbye,  boys ;  we  are  going  to  help  'Old  Jack'  to 
drive  the  Yanks  into  the  Potomac,"  was  tauntingly 
called  back  to  the  men  left  behind,  as  the  clatter  of  the 
departing  cavalry  died  away. 

Through  the  cool  of  the  evening,  the  twelve  hundred 
horsemen  rode,  merrily  joking  together  over  their 
dangerous  mission,  but  when  the  final  halt  was  called, 
all  were  silent,  while  they  bivouacked  for  the  night. 
They  were  now  close  to  the  lines  of  the  thousands  of 
Union  soldiers.  No  camp-fires  burned  among  them,  for 
their  very  lives  depended  upon  secrecy  and  speed. 

Early  in  the  dawn  of  the  next  day,  the  men  were 
mounted  and  off,  without  a  single  blast  of  the  trumpet. 
Two  hours'  ride  distant,  a  large  body  of  Federal  sol- 
diers were  stationed  at  Hanover  Court  House.  The 
daring  cavalrymen  rode  by  them,  unheeded,  though 
they  were  almost  within  their  sight,  and  were  soon  on 
the  road  to  Hawes'  Shop.  Cautiously  they  moved 
along.  A  Union  picket,  taken  by  surprise,  was  caught 
without  firing  a  shot. 

"The  Yankees!"  cried  a  cavalryman. 

The  advance  guard  of  the  Confederates  were  sud- 
denly set  upon  by  a  squadron  of  Federal  cavalry  and 
driven  back  upon  the  main  body.  The  commander 
ordered  his  men  forward  to  attack.  Cautiously  ad- 
vancing, they  reached  a  bend  in  the  road  and  could  see 
the  Union  soldiers,  two  hundred  yards  away. 

With  a  wild  yell,  the  Confederates  dashed  around 
the  bend  and  were  upon  the  Union  men  like  a  whirl- 
wind. So  sudden  was  the  attack  and  so  great  was  the 
number  of  men,  that  the  Union  soldiers  broke  and  fled. 
For  a  mile  and  a  half  the  Confederates  chased  the  panic- 
stricken  soldiers  and  captured  a  few  prisoners. 

The  rapidly  moving  body  of  horsemen  were  repeat- 
edly attacked  by  small  parties  of  Federal  soldiers  dur- 


HERO  TALES 


ing  the  day.  In  one  instance,  the  father-in-law  of  the 
cavalry  commander  gave  them  a  fierce  struggle,  and  he 
sent  a  note  to  the  Union  officer  praising  him  for  his 
gallant  attack.  There  were  numerous  instances  in  the 
war  between  the  North  and  South,  of  a  brother  who 
fought  his  brother;  and  several  cases  of  fathers  who 
fought  their  sons,  in  the  support  of  their  beliefs  and 
principles;  but  after  peace  had  been  restored,  these 
men  had  but  added  respect  for  each  other. 

The  daring  Confederate  cavalry  leader  and  his  men 
were  now  miles  in  the  rear  of  the  Union  army,  which  lay 
directly  between  them  and  their  comrades  in  Richmond. 
Down  the  road  leading  to  White  House  Station,  the 
cavalry  galloped.  In  the  distance  could  be  seen  the 
little  ramshackle  building,  surrounded  by  a  guard  of 
Federals.  With  a  fearful  yell,  the  Confederates 
charged  and  soon  had  the  railroad  station  in  their  pos- 
session. Hastily  the  soldiers  set  about  felling  trees 
onto  the  tracks. 

The  toot  of  an  engine  was  heard  in  the  distance. 
The  commander  hurriedly  sent  a  body  of  soldiers  along 
the  banks  running  parallel  with  the  track,  and  waited 
the  coming  of  the  train  which  was  loaded  with  Union 
soldiers.  The  heroic  engineer,  seeing  the  trees  on  the 
tracks,  and  the  uniforms  of  the  Confederate  cavalry- 
men, put  on  full  speed  and  dashed  down  upon  the  logs. 
With  a  tremendous  crash,  the  engine  struck  them, 
hurled  them  right  and  left,  and  passed  on  without 
accident. 

Down  the  track,  the  train  roared  toward  the  waiting 
cavalrymen.  A  crackling,  smashing  volley  was  poured 
into  the  flying  train  as  it  passed,  and  though  it  had  not 
been  stopped,  it  carried  many  dead  and  severely  injured 
soldiers. 

The  second  night  had  now  arrived.  The  weary  and 
—350— 


A  THOUSAND  HORSEMEN 


hungry  cavalrymen  dashed  on.  Their  raid  had  been 
marked  by  such  fierce  fighting  and  riding  that  the  men 
and  horses  had  had  no  time  to  forage  for  food,  and  now 
their  position  was  so  dangerous  that  their  very  lives 
depended  on  their  fast  and  constant  riding. 

Through  the  weird  shadows  cast  by  the  bright  moon- 
light, they  hurried  forward.  The  bushes  on  the  sides 
of  the  road  looked  like  sentinels,  and  the  troops,  their 
nerves  tense  with  excitement,  expected  every  moment 
to  hear  the  cries  of  the  enemy. 

Marching  all  night,  the  horsemen  came  at  last  to  the 
Chickahominy  Eiver,  and  as  the  cavalry  leader  naively 
expressed  it:  "Here  their  real  troubles  began." 

They  found  it  swollen  to  twice  its  usual  height,  and 
running  like  a  mill-sluice,  but  their  perilous  position 
compelled  them  to  make  an  attempt  to  ford  it.  Plung- 
ing into  the  raging  current,  they  tried  to  swim  their 
horses  across.  In  two  hours  they  had  succeeded  in 
getting  only  seventy-five  men  over.  Delay  was  danger- 
ous. The  cavalry  leader  set  off  down  stream.  A 
temporary  bridge  was  thrown  across  to  a  small  island 
in  the  center  of  the  river.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
island  they  were  able  to  ford  their  horses. 

That  night  they  rested  within  twenty-five  miles  of 
Richmond,  and  had  the  Federals  known  of  their  posi- 
tion, it  would  have  fared  ill  with  the  daring  invaders. 

Realizing  the  danger,  the  commander  ordered  his 
men  forward.  For  forty-eight  hours,  they  had  been  in 
saddle.  Now  their  weary  heads  swayed  from  side  to 
side  as  they  rode,  asleep  on  their  horses,  and  awaking 
with  a  start  as  they  began  to  slip  from  their  saddles. 

"Who  goes  there?"  rang  out  on  the  stillness  of  the 
early  morning. 

Now,  wide  awake  and  alert,  the  troops  moved  for- 
ward, with  strained  muscles,  ready  for  the  enemy. 

—351— 


HERO  TALES 


It  was  a  picket  of  the  lOth  Virginia  Cavalry. 

AVith  jovial  taunts,  the  weary  horsemen  passed  on 
into  their  own  lines. 

The  news  soon  spread  among  the  Confederate  sol- 
diers, and  the  brave  horsemen  were  greeted  with  cheer 
on  cheer  as  they  rode  along  to  their  camp.  The  country 
rang  with  the  daring  of  the  men  who  had  raided 
entirely  around  the  mighty  Federal  army,  bringing 
prisoners  and  plunder  from  under  their  very  noses; 
and  the  South  will  ever  tell  with  pride  of  its  gallant 
cavalry  leader — General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart. 


"Look,  our  ransomed  shores  around, 
Peace  and  safety  we  have  found! 
Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes! 
To  aU  the  conquering  years  have  gained,- 
A  nation's  rights,  a  race  unchained! 
Children  of  the  day  new-born. 
Mindful  of  its   glorious  morn; 
Let  the  pledge  our  fathers  signed 
Heart  to  heart  forever  bind! 

"While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Erer  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One!" 


—352— 


THE   TALE    OF    THE   CHILD    BRIDE    OF 
DELAWARE  BAY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  child  bride, 
who,  when  her  young  husband  was  accused  of  being  a 
spy,  defended  her  home  against  the  depredations  of  the  King's 
soldiers  and  won  their  admiration.     It  is,  moreover,  the  tale  of  the 
power  of  a  gieat  secret  fraternity  whose  influence  encircles  the  globe. 

HANNAH  ISRAEL  was  a  bride,  nineteen  years 
old,  when  the  American  Revolution  broke 
out.     The  '* Israel  boys,"  her  husband,  and 
his  younger,  unmarried  brother  Joseph,  both 
declared  their  purpose  of  going  to  the  war. 

*'One  of  you  may  go,"  said  Mother  Israel,  ''but  the 
other  must  stay  at  home  to-  take  care  of  the  women 
folks." 

Both  were  so  eager  to  go  that  it  was  hard  to  decide 
between  them. 

"I'll  draw  lots  with  you,"  said  Joseph. 
The  lots  were  drawn,  and — Joseph  was  chosen  to 
offer  his  life  to  his  country. 

Mother  Israel  was  living  in  Philadelphia,  while  the 
married  son,  Israel  Israel,  resided  thirty  miles  away. 
About  the  close  of  the  year  1777,  when  General  Howe 
was  in  full  possession  of  that  city,  news  of  the  horrible 
destitution  and  suffering  there  reached  young  Israel. 
He  determined,  in  spite  of  the  danger,  to  go  and  provide 
for  the  wants  of  his  beloved  mother.  Accordingly,  he 
hurriedly  set  out  on  foot  for  her  horn©.    His  heavy 

—353— 


HERO  TALES 


great-coat,  served  to  hide  the  provisions  which  he  was 
carrying.  He  did  not  know,  until  he  reached  the  home 
of  a  Tory  neighbor,  how  he  could  get  through  the  British 
lines,  but  this  neighbor,  while  disagreeing  with  him  in 
politics,  said  that  he  did  not  wish  to  have  "Mother 
Israel"  suffer. 

"If  you  will  promise  never  to  betray  me,  I  will  give 
you  the  countersign,"  said  he. 

Young  Israel  promised.  In  the  early  evening,  he 
arrived  at  the  British  outposts. 

"Who  goes  there?"  called  a  sentinel. 

."A  friend,"  responded  young  Israel. 

"The  countersign,"  demanded  the  sentinel. 

Without  hesitation,  Israel  gave  it. 

"Pass,  friend,"  said  the  sentinel,  and  the  traveler 
was  within  the  British  lines. 

On  reaching  his  destination,  he  was  delighted  to  find 
there  his  soldier  brother,  Joseph,  who  was  paying  a 
secret  visit  to  his  home.  Joy  filled  the  heart  of  the 
mother  as  she  gathered  her  family  around  her  that 
evening. 

On  the  following  day,  young  Israel  started  on  the 
thirty-mile  journey  back  to  his  own  home  on  Delaware 
Bay.  No  adventure  befell  him,  until,  just  as  he  reached 
it,  he  was  approached  by  a  British  soldier. 

"Here  is  the  spy!"  exclaimed  the  officer.  "You 
are  my  prisoner, ' '  and  young  Israel  was  hurried  aboard 
the  frigate  Roebuck,  which  was  anchored  in  the  Dela- 
ware within  view  of  his  home.  The  valuables  on  his 
person  and  part  of  his  clothing  were  taken  away  from 
him.  At  night,  he  was  obliged  to  make  his  bed  on  a 
coil  of  rope  on  the  deck. 

Some  days  later  he  was  brought  to  trial.  He  was 
a  member  of  the  Committee  of  Safety,  a  patriotic 
organization  to   protect  the  homes   of  the   cbldmsts 

—354— 


THE  CHILD  BRIDE 


against  Tory  marauders ;  and  this  fact  made  Ms  posi- 
tion very  critical.  His  Tory  neighbors  appeared  as 
witnesses  against  him,  and  not  the  least  important  of 
these  was  the  neighbor  who  had  given  him  the  counter- 
sign. 

One  of  these  witnesses  testified  that  when  Israel 
Israel  was  asked  to  contribute  his  stock  for  the  needs  of 
the  ships,  he  had  answered : 

''I  would  rather  drive  my  cattle  as  a  present  to 
General  Washington  than  to  receive  thousands  of 
dollars  in  British  gold  for  them." 

This  statement  filled  the  British  officers  with  anger. 

''Go  to  his  pasture  now  and  slaughter  every  head  of 
cattle  that  you  find  there,"  ordered  the  court. 

The  house  was  situated  on  an  elevation  a  good  dis- 
tance back,  and  the  pasture  land  sloped  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  The  child-wife,  not  yet  twenty  years  of 
age,  kept  guard  at  the  window,  now  and  then  catching 
a  glimpse  of  her  husband,  as  he  was  hauled  about  the 
deck  of  the  British  frigate. 

The  soldiers  came  ashore  and  marched  toward  the 
pasture.  Instantly  the  young  wife  suspected  their 
motive,  and,  calling  to  an  eight-year-old  boy  who  was 
near,  to  follow  her,  she  fled  to  the  pasture  before  them. 

She  threw  down  the  bars  and  stood  between  the 
soldiers  and  the  herded  cattle. 

* '  Stop,  or  we  will  fire ! ' '  ordered  the  British  soldiers. 

''Fire  away!"  responded  the  girl  defiantly. 

Quick  to  obey,  they  fired.  The  terrified  cattle  ran 
madly  around  the  pasture. 

' '  This  way !  This  way,  Joe ! "  she  called  to  the  boy. 
"Head  them  here!  Stop  them,  Joe!  Don't  let  one 
escape!" 

Another  volley  of  shot  whizzed  by  her  head.  The 
little  boy,  overcome  with  terror,  fell  to  the  ground. 

•  —355— 


HERO  TALES 


The  girl  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  placed  him  over 
the  fence,  and  then,  herself,  drove  the  cattle  to  safety 
in  the  barnyard.  The  soldiers,  deeply  impressed  by 
her  courage,  returned  to  the  frigate. 

''She's  the  bravest  little  woman  weVe  encountered 
yet, ' '  said  one  of  the  officers,  who  had  stood  on  the  deck 
of  the  frigate  and  watched  the  soldiers. 

The  prisoner,  too,  had  witnessed  the  incident,  and 
he  heard  these  words  with  pride. 

The  trial  of  the  young  patriot  was  near  its  end. 
The  punishment  of  a  spy  was  death.  During  his 
imprisonment,  he  had  overheard  conversations  which 
informed  him  that  the  British  officers  were  loyal  mem- 
bers of  a  secret  order  in  old  England,  to  which  the 
prisoner  belonged  in  America.  This  secret  order  has 
exerted  great  power  throughout  the  nations,  and  its 
influence  has  profoundly  affected  some  of  the  great 
crises  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

The  prisoner  stood  before  the  military  court.  His 
Tory  neighbors  had  testified  to  his  ardent  devotion  to 
the  new  ''rebeP'  republic.  Sentence  was  now  to  be 
pronounced. 

The  commander  of  the  ship  was  glaring  at  him, 
when  young  Israel  made  a  quick  pass.  The  officers, 
who  were  all  gazing  upon  him,  looked  at  one  another  in 
bewilderment,  and  then  nodded  their  heads. 

** Dismissed,"  growled  the  commander.  ''There  is 
no  evidence  to  prove  that  this  man  is  a  spy. ' ' 

The  Tory  witnesses  left  the  ship  in  chagrin.  The 
secret  sign  of  the  brotherhood  to  which  they  belonged, 
Briton  and  patriot  alike,  had  saved  his  life ;  and  when 
the  young  husband  returned  to  his  wife,  he  carried  gifts 
from  the  officers  to  the  "heroic  little  lady"  at  home, — 
.to  whom  he  owed  the  preservation  of  his  property. 


—356— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FARMER  BOY  WHO 
ROSE  TO  LEAD  A  GREAT  ARMY 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  farmer  boy 
who  brought  triumph  out  of  failure;  who,  when  he  was 
disappointed  in  youth,  turned  his  first  discouragement  into  the 
crown  of  success.     It  is  a  tale  of  a  courage  that  never  d  es  and  In 
it  is  written  the  hope  of  every  American  youth  who  is  willing  to  struggle. 

IN  WESTMINSTER,  in  Massachusetts,  on  the 
eighth  day  of  August,  1839,  a  son  was  born  in  a 
New  England  home  of  old  Puritan  stock.  His 
boyhood  was  passed  on  the  farm,  and  at  the  age 
of  six  years  he  could  ride  and  manage  a  horse.  When 
he  reached  his  sixteenth  year,  he  sought  entrance  to 
West  Point,  and,  in  his  disappointment,  he  obtained  a 
position  as  a  clerk  in  a  store  in  Boston. 

The  news  of  the  firing  on  Fort  Sumter  excited  the 
old  abolition  town.  Obtaining  money  from  his  uncle 
and  father,  the  youth,  now  twenty-two  years  old,  re- 
cruited a  company  of  infantry,  and  prepared  to  march 
to  the  front  as  its  captain. 

It  was  the  night  before  the  regiment  was  to  move 
on  to  Washington.    An  officer  passed  before  the  lines. 
**That  boy  is  too  young  for  a  captain,**  he  remarked. 
**We  must  have  an  older  man.** 

The  youth  protested,  but,  as  his  rank  was  reduced 
to  second-lieutenant,  manfully  said:   **I  have  enlisted 
to  fight  the  enemy,  not  the  governor  of  my  state." 
He  was  a  tall,  graceful  young  officer,  whose  resolute, 
—357— 


HERO  TALES 


handsome  face  soon  became  well  known  in  the  brigade, 
for  every  battle-field,  won  or  lost,  yielded  him  laurels. 

*  *  Other  men  let  np  once  in  a  while,  but  he  kept  at  it 
always,"  said  his  commanding  officers. 

At  the  battle  of  Antietam,  the  commander  of  the 
regiment  was  severely  wounded  and  the  young  lieu- 
tenant assimied  command,  leading  the  men  all  through 
that  terrible  day.  Soon  afterward,  he  was  made  the 
colonel  of  a  regiment  of  his  own.  "When  the  long 
struggle  was  over,  the  New  England  youth,  through 
sheer  merit,  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  brevet-major- 
general  in  the  regular  army. 

He  had  proved  his  worth  and  was  now  on  the  road 
to  fame.  Though  he  was  a  great  fighter  in  war,  he 
fought  with  equal  gallantry  in  times  of  peace,  and  many 
were  the  occasions  when,  by  rare  judgment,  he  averted 
bloodshed. 

Years  later  he  was  sent  to  the  "West  to  subdue  the 
troublesome  Indians.  Indian  warfare  in  that  genera- 
tion was  not  the  matching  of  spears  and  arrows  against 
modern  rifles  and  machine-guns.  The  Indians  often 
had  breech-loading  rifles,  when  the  regulars  did  not. 
The  young  advocate  of  peace  studied  the  methods  of 
the  savages.  He  believed  in  giving  his  enemy  no  rest 
until  he  was  subdued,  and  he  relentlessly  pursued  them. 

It  was  shortly  after  the  fearful  massacre  of  Custer 
and  his  men,  on  the  Little  Big  Horn,  in  June,  1876,  that 
the  young  warrior  was  sent  to  Montana  to  help  the 
troops  to  punish  the  guilty  savages.  Most  of  the  sol- 
diers were  withdrawn,  leaving  the  New  Englander  with 
a  small  command  to  winter  on  the  Yellowstone  River, 
in  order  to  be  ready  for  a  Spring  campaign. 

''I  will  not  wait,"  he  resolved,  *'  but  will  strike  the 
decisive  blow  now.  They  expect  us  to  hive  up  for  the 
.winter,  but  we  are  not  of  the  hiving  kind." 

—358— 


THE  FARMER  BOY 


It  was  the  twenty-first  of  October.  The  troopers 
were  lined  up  on  the  battlefield  at  the  head  of  Cedar 
Creek,  confronting  Sitting  Bull,  the  greatest  Indian 
brave  of  his  generation.  Sitting  Bull,  astounded  at  the 
action  of  the  man  who  dared  fight  him  in  winter  as  well 
as  in  summer,  sent  a  flag  of  truce  and  wanted  an  inter- 
view. It  was  arranged  that  the  American  commander 
was  to  have  six  persons  accompany  him,  and  Sitting 
Bull  a  like  number.  From  the  American  lines  stalked 
the  officer,  until  he  had  reached  a  point  half  way  to  the 
Indian's  camp  and  was  met  by  the  wily  old  chief. 

A  blanket  was  spread,  and  Sitting  Bull  sat  down, 
after  the  American  officer  had  refused.  As  the  two  men 
talked,  the  young  Indian  braves  left  their  lines  and  care- 
lessly sauntered  up.  Soon  there  were  fifteen  warriors 
surrounding  the  Americans. 

'*  These  men  are  not  old  enough  for  council,  and, 
unless  you  send  them  back  we  will  stop  talking,"  ex- 
claimed the  officer,  his  suspicions  aroused.  "With  mut- 
terings  and  black  looks,  the  young  savages  retired. 

Later,  the  American  commander  learned  through 
an  interpreter  that  one  of  the  Indians  had  said:  ''Why 
don't  you  talk  strong  to  him?" 

Sitting  Bull  had  replied:  "When  I  do  that,  I  am 
going  to  shoot  him. ' ' 

The  American  leader  fully  realized  his  danger  in 
trusting  himself  to  the  treacherous  savages,  but  he  had 
courageously  gone  into  their  midst  in  the  hope  of  peace- 
fully inducing  them  to  surrender  and  avoid  further 
bloodshed. 

The  following  day,  he  again  met  the  chief,  and, 
knowing  that  at  any  moment  he  might  be  shot  down 
by  the  treacherous  savages,  he  strongly  urged  the  In- 
dians to  obey  the  government  and  return  to  their 
reservations.   The  great  chief  refused. 

—359— 


HERO  TALES 


Further  parley  was  useless.  The  American  officer 
whirled  on  his  heel  and  said  to  the  interpreter,  **Tell 
him  that  I  either  will  drive  him  out  of  the  country,  or 
he  will  drive  me  out.  I  will  take  no  advantage  of  his 
being  under  a  flag  of  truce,  and  will  give  him  fifteen 
minutes  to  get  back  to  his  lines." 

Sitting  Bull  and  his  chiefs  were  infuriated.  The 
Indian  lines  were  in  an  uproar.  Hideous  cries  filled 
the  air  as  the  braves  dashed  out.  Flames  crept  across 
the  plains  toward  the  soldiers.  The  Indians  had  set  fire 
to  the  grass  to  stop  the  advance  of  the  troopers. 

The  American  commander  dashed  through  the  blaze 
with  his  soldiers  and  fell  on  the  thousands  of  yelling 
savages.  The  Indians,  stubbornly  resisting,  were 
forced  to  give  way,  and  finally  fled  in  consternation. 

For  forty  miles  they  were  pursued,  fighting  all  the 
way,  until  they  were  driven  to  the  Yellowstone  Eiver. 

Six  days  later,  two  thousand  Indians  surrendered 
and  returned  to  the  reservation,  but  Sitting  Bull  had 
escaped  and  fled  to  Canada. 

The  western  plains  were  now  well  cleared  for  the 
oncoming  civilization.  The  great  immigrant  trains 
were  moving  into  the  prairies  and  the  cry,  ''Go  West, 
young  man, ' '  sounded  throughout  the  East. 

The  Spanish-American  war  broke  out.  On  the 
battle-grour  d,  in  command  of  the  great  army,  was  this 
same  warrior  from  New  England,  who,  nearly  forty- 
five  years  before,  had  entered  the  army  as  a  second 
lieutenant,  and,  by  his  unfailing  courtesy,  attention  to 
duty,  and  sheer  merit,  had  risen  to  the  highest  position 
in  the  United  States  army,  and  was  now  leading  the 
American  flag  to  triumph  against  the  power  of  ancient 
Spain,  whose  ships  had  first  discovered  the  existence  of 
the  Western  World,  and  the  American  people  paid 
tribute  to  their  hero — General  Nelson  A.  Miles. 

—360— 


THE  TALE   OF   THE    HEIRESS    OF   OLD 
KINGWOOD  MANSION 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  granddaughter 
of  the  oid  American  aristocracy,  who,  when  the  deso- 
lation of  war  swept  the  land,  opened  her  heart  and  home 
to  the  cause  of  American  liberty.    It  is  the  tale  of  a  girl  burdened 
with  sorrow  who  found  solace  in   helping  others  who  were  in  distress. 

IN  THE  early  days,  in  the  village  of  Kingwood  in 
New  Jersey,  stood  an  old  mansion.  It  was  known 
far  and  wide  as  the  ''big  stone  honse,"  and  when 
the  Indians  attacked  the  country,  the  terrified 
settlers,  from  miles  around,  would  hurry  to  the  strong 
walls  of  the  mansion  that  stood  on  the  hill,  commanding 
a  view  of  the  valley.  Over  its  hospitable  board,  pre- 
sided a  distinguished  old  gentleman — Judge  Johnston, 
the  chief  magistrate  of  the  section.  It  was  his  duty  to 
administer  justice  for  the  maintenance  of  law  and  order 
in  the  wild  country.  On  every  Monday  night,  in  the 
spacious  halls  of  his  mansion,  he  held  his  court,  and 
such  was  his  hospitality,  that  friend  and  stranger  were 
almost  compelled  to  come  in. 

It  was  in  this  wholesome  atmosphere  of  refinement 
and  kindliness,  that,  on  the  twentieth  day  of  December, 
in  1758,  a  granddaughter  was  born  to  the  Judge — and 
she  was  named  Martha  Stewart.  Her  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  the  judge,  and  her  father  was  a  prominent 
colonel.  Her  childhood  passed  on  the  hills  of  the  estate 
which  adjoined  that  of  the  judge,  and  was  owned  by 

—361— 


HERO  TALES 


her  father.  When  she  had  reached  thirteen  years  of 
age,  she  was  left  motherless,  and  her  father  became 
her  most  intimate  companion.  His  friends  were 
wealthy,  and,  when  he  entertained,  his  daughter  was 
hostess  of  the  mansion.  The  leading  men  of  the  times 
gathered  about  their  fireside,  and  Martha  soon  absorbed 
the  principles  of  patriotism  and  freedom. 

One  day  there  came  to  this  home,  a  young  merchant 
— Robert  Wilson,  of  the  Barony  of  Innishowen,  in 
Ireland.  He  had  been  trained  in  his  home  country  to 
a  mercantile  life,  and  had  come  to  America  and  acquired 
a  considerable  fortune.  He,  too,  was  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  patriotism,  and  many  were  the  nights  that  he 
sat  before  the  glowing  fire  in  the  old  mansion,  and 
talked  of  the  struggles  of  his  own  country  for  freedom. 
His  gallant  manner  and  true  heart  appealed  to  the 
daughter  of  the  colonel.  One  January  day,  in  the  year 
that  America  declared  her  independence,  the  wedding 
bells  rang  through  the  colonel's  home,  and  Martha 
became  the  bride  of  young  Wilson. 

The  bridal  year  was  passed  in  the  turmoil  of  the 
American  Revolution,  but  within  the  hearts  of  the 
newly  wedded  couple  there  was  sweet  peace.  Then 
came  a  sad  day — the  young  husband  sickened — and 
died.  Thus,  at  the  age  of  twenty  years,  Martha  was 
left  a  widow.  Her  father,  the  colonel,  was  engaged  in 
the  Revolution. 

"I  have  nothing  left  now,"  she  said,  '* but  my 

country.    I  will  give  my  love  to  that." 

The  doors  of  her  home  were  thrown  wide  open  to 
the  soldiers.  On  the  gates  that  faced  the  public  high- 
way this  invitation  was  posted : 

''Hospitality  within,  to  all  American  officers,  and 
refreshments  for  all  their  soldiers." 

The  sorrowing  Martha  even  stood  at  her  gates,  and 
—362— 


THE  HEIRESS 


as  the  regiments  marched  hy,  personally  offered  hos- 
pitality to  the  officers.  The  sick  were  brought  into  her 
chambers,  and  her  servants  prepared  food  to  be  served 
to  any  who  might  knock  at  the  door. 

When  the  news  arrived  of  the  victory  at  Yorktown, 
Martha's  heart  was  filled  with  joy.  Then  followed  the 
home-coming  of  her  father,  the  gallant  Colonel  Stewart, 
and  the  old  mansion  once  more  rang  with  the  laughter 
of  joy  and  good  fellowship. 

Martha  was  again  the  hostess  at  her  father's  hearth. 
The  family  fortune  was  used  to  erect  a  new  and  impos- 
ing mansion,  on  the  heights  of  Lebanon.  The  house- 
hold was  gathered  in  thanksgiving,  when,  suddenly,  the 
colonel  was  summoned  away. 

It  was  Sunday.  The  colonel  had  been  gone  during 
the  entire  night.  Martha  was  seated  with  the  other 
members  of  the  household  on  the  veranda. 

''It  seems  to  me  that  I  hear  footsteps,"  said  Martha. 

"Surround  the  house!  Close  in!"  was  the  strange 
response,  and,  instantly,  without  warning,  some  thirty 
men  with  blackened  faces,  and  a  variety  of  weapons, 
rushed  onto  the  porch. 

"We  demand  Colonel  Stewart,"  spoke  the  leader. 

"He  is  not  here,"  replied  Martha. 

' '  He  is  here ! ' '  answered  the  men  angrily,  and  began 
a  search  of  the  house. 

The  colonel's  son,  and  a  son-in-law,  who  were  guests 
at  the  house,  refused  them  admittance. 

"You  are  our  prisoners,"  exclaimed  the  leader. 

"I  would  like  to  know,  who  in  the  world  you  are, 
first,"  spoke  one  of  the  young  men.  The  blow  of  a 
sword  felled  him  to  the  ground,  in  response. 

' '  You  may  search  the  house,  if  you  wish, ' '  exclaimed 
Martha,  excitedly.  "You  will  not  find  my  father — for 
he  is  not  here." 

^363— 


HERO  TALES 


''On  penalty  of  your  life  you  will  lead  the  way," 
exclaimed  the  leader. 

Martha  was  forced  to  lead  the  marauders  through 
the  home  of  the  patriot,  who  had  stood  staunchly  for 
American  independence,  and  thus  aroused  the  anger  of 
the  Tories.  Silver  heirlooms,  and  other  valuables  were 
taken  by  the  marauders.  Silks,  and  rich  mementoes, 
were  pulled  down,  as  they  passed  through  the  rooms, 
until  the  mansion  was  stripped  of  its  treasures  and 
finally,  before  leaving,  the  intruders  invaded  the  larder, 
and  feasted  on  the  good  things  intended  for  the  Sunday 
repast  of  the  household. 

Martha,  and  the  members  of  the  family,  were  led 
to  a  room  in  the  attic,  where  she  was  forced  to  promise 
that  she  would  not  allow  any  one  to  leave  the  house 
within  two  hours.  The  door  was  then  locked,  and  the 
key  thrown  into  the  bushes.  Heavy  pieces  of  furniture 
were  pushed  into  the  halls  and  stairway  to  obstruct 
them. 

It  was  some  minutes  later  that  a  posse  of  three 
hundred  patriots  were  in  pursuit,  but  the  raiders  had 
fled  to  the  woods,  and  were  not  found.  The  absence  of 
Colonel  Stewart  had  undoubtedly  saved  his  life,  for  the 
Tories  were  revengeful  over  the  victory  of  the  patriots, 
and  were  seeking  the  life  of  one  of  its  most  heroic 
officers. 


"All's  well  for  the  banner  that  dances  free, 
Where  the  mountains  are  shouting  the  news  to  the  sea. 
All's  well  for  the  bold,  and  all's  ill  for  the  strong, 
In  the  fight  and  the  flight  that  shall  hold  us  long, 
In  tale  and  song." 


—364— 


THE  TALE   OF  THE  MISSION   CHURCH 
IN  THE  STRUGGLE  FOR  FREEDOM 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  mission  church 
that  became  a  stone  fortress,  about  which  raged  a 
people's  struggle  for  independence.    It  Is  a  tale  of  brave  men 
whom  it  sheltered  against  the  overwhelming  power  of  an  army,  only 
to  lose  their  lives  at  its  altars  in  defense  of  its  sacred  walls  and  liberty. 

IT  WAS  in  the  year  1836,  when  Texas  was  a  province 
of  Mexico,  and  was  fighting  for  its  independence. 
Hemmed  in,  in  a  little  mission  church  known  as 
the  Alamo,  in  San  Antonio,  on  the  Texas  frontier, 
forty-six  brave  American  frontiersmen  faced  an  army 
of  4,000  Mexican  troops  under  General  Santa  Anna. 
Deceived  as  to  the  number  of  men  in  the  Alamo,  Santa 
Anna  feared  to  make  the  attack  that  would  have  quickly 
forced  their  surrender.  Instead,  he  laid  siege  to  the 
little  stone  fortress. 

Texas  was  determined  to  be  independent.  Mexico, 
laying  claim  to  the  territory,  was  equally  bent  upon 
retaining  possession  of  it.  All  along  the  frontier,  little 
bodies  of  daring  pioneers  were  armed  and  waiting  for 
the  invaders.  Had  these  rugged  heroes  of  the  woods 
and  plains  worked  together,  they  could  easily  have 
driven  Santa  Anna  out  of  the  country.  But  organiza- 
tion was  lacking,  and  Santa  Anna  was  thus  enabled  to 
attack  one  small  band  at  a  time.  Colonel  William  B. 
Travis,  with  his  garrison  of  forty-five  men,  occupied 
the  Alamo,  when  Santa  Anna,  with  his  army  of  Mexi- 

—365— 


HERO  TALES 


cans,  attacked  it.  With  true  frontier  heroism,  they 
refused  to  surrender,  resolved  to  die  fighting. 

Miles  away,  on  the  Eio  Grande,  Davy  Crockett,  with 
his  little  band  of  140  sturdy  woodsmen,  heard  that 
Travis  and  his  men  were  besieged.  Instantly  they 
started  to  the  rescue.  It  was  a  long,  hard  march,  but 
they  were  trained  to  such  work,  and  the  Alamo  was 
reached  before  Santa  Anna  had  discovered  the  weak- 
ness of  the  garrison. 

Davy  Crockett  was  a  pioneer  and  a  fighter.  He 
had  dealt  with  the  Indians,  and  was  educated  in  the 
stealthy  mode  of  Indian  attack.  Now  he  kept  his  men 
concealed,  and  under  the  cover  of  night  made  a  recon- 
naissance. Then  he  learned  his  fatal  mistake.  He  had 
expected  to  find  the  Mexicans  numbered  by  hundreds. 
Instead,  they  were  numbered  by  thousands.  On  all 
sides  of  the  Alamo  they  were  drawn  up,  company  after 
company.  Even  reinforced  by  his  small  band,  there 
was  no  chance  for  the  heroic  defenders  of  the  fort. 
For  his  men  to  enter  was  to  go  to  certain  doom. 

A  short  conference  was  held.  Crockett  made  it 
plain  to  his  men  that,  even  under  the  most  favorable 
circumstances,  they  could  not  hope  to  save  the  handful 
of  men  in  the  mission.  The  most  they  could  do,  was  to 
die  with  them.  Then  came  the  question;  "Shall  we 
go  in?" 

It  took  but  a  moment  to  decide.  To  a  man  the 
answer  was  the  same. 

''Yes." 

At  the  break  of  dawn,  when  Santa  Anna's  men  were 
drowsily  pacing  their  beats,  Davy  Crockett  and  his  band 
made  their  rush  for  the  stockade-gate.  Taken  by  sur- 
prise, the  Mexicans  were  thrown  into  confusion,  and, 
before  they  could  rally  to  oppose  the  rush,  the  gateway 
had  been  gained.     The  gates  swung  open,  and  Crockett 

—366— 


THE  MISSION  CHURCH 


and  his  men,  self -condemned,  entered  the  Alamo,  shout- 
ing to  the  cheering  defenders,  "We've  come  to  die  with 
you ! " 

With  the  break  of  day,  Santa  Anna  again  laid  siege 
to  the  fort.  Attack  after  attack  was  made,  only  to  be 
repulsed.  The  defenders  were  sure  shots.  Not  a 
charge  of  powder  was  wasted  from  the  inside  of  the 
walls,  while  all  day  long  the  bullets  pattered  against 
the  sides  of  the  fort,  now  and  then  finding  an  entrance 
through  a  loop-hole  or  window,  to  lodge  in  the  body 
of  one  of  the  defenders,  and  reduce  the  garrison  by 
one  more.  Night  came,  but  the  assault  still  con- 
tinued. Under  the  cover  of  darkness,  the  Mexicans 
carried  up  a  ladder  and  placed  it  against  the  outside 
of  the  stockade;  but  to  try  to  gain  entrance  in  that 
manner  was  worse  than  useless.  Davy  Crockett  was 
there  to  meet  the  first  man  who  dared  to  climb;  with 
knife  in  hand,  he  saluted  each  newcomer,  and  soon  this 
plan  was  abandoned. 

From  then  on,  the  siege  was  continuous.  Night  and 
day  the  Mexicans  stormed  the  little  stockade.  Slowly 
but  surely,  the  slender  company  of  heroes  grew  smaller 
and  smaller.  The  losses  of  the  besiegers  were  ten  to 
one,  but  still  there  was  no  hope.  Travis,  the  brave  com- 
mander of  the  little  garrison  fell,  mortally  wounded, 
and  the  direction  of  the  fight  fell  to  Davy  Crockett  and 
Colonel  Jim  Bowie.  Without  rest  or  sleep,  the  sur- 
vivors stuck  to  their  places,  fighting  on  and  on  until 
they  fell.  The  Mexican  dead  numbered  a  thousand. 
The  troops  had  to  be  driven  to  the  attack  at  the  point 
of  their  officers'  swords,  and  still  Davy  Crockett  and 
the  few  survivors  fought,  knowing  it  was  but  to  die  in 
the  end. 

Eleven  days  passed.  Worn  to  the  brink  of  death 
from  their  continuous  fighting,  the  few  defenders  who 

—367— 


HERO  TALES 


remained  were  failing  in  their  marksmanship.  Only 
the  unconquerable  courage  of  Davy  Crockett  kept  them 
at  it.  It  was  not  want  of  courage  which  ailed  them,  but 
simply  exhaustion  and  lack  of  sleep.  Santa  Anna,  alert 
for  the  opportunity,  massed  his  forces  in  front  of  the 
stockade.  The  little  band  inside  prepared  to  die.  With 
ladders  and  battering  rams  the  Mexicans  advanced. 
By  the  dozen  they  were  shot,  but  the  column  never 
stopped  till  it  reached  the  wall.  The  battering-rams 
crashed  against  the  gate.  It  yielded  and  finally  opened. 
Through  the  gap  the  Mexicans  flooded.  In  one  corner 
of  the  stockade  the  dozen  survivors  gathered  for  their 
last  stand. 

A  small  Mexican  cannon  was  hauled  into  the  Alamo. 
In  one  room  lay  the  wounded  and  dying.  But  now  that 
the  end  had  come,  every  man  who  could  pull  a  trigger 
was  a  fighter.  Travis,  dying,  unable  to  move,  shot 
until  a  sabre-stroke  stilled  his  hand  forever.  The 
cannon  was  dragged  to  the  door  of  the  room  where  the 
wounded  lay.  One  discharge,  and  then  a  few  bayonet- 
thrusts  had  finished  all  but  Crockett  and  five  of  his 
men.     In  a  little  corner,  they  battled  like  demons. 

Surrounded  by  a  pile  of  dead  bodies,  these  five  were 
finally  overpowered  and  taken  prisoners.  They  were 
led  before  Santa  Anna.  Gloating  over  his  victory, 
which  had  cost  htm  1,600  men,  the  Mexican  general 
promised  the  dauntless  five  their  safety  as  prisoners  of 
war.  Even  as  he  spoke  the  words,  the  five  heroes  were 
approached  from  behind  by  order  of  the  treacherous 
general.  Crockett,  at  the  sign  of  bad  faith,  started 
to  spring  at  Santa  Anna's  throat.  He  was  too  late. 
He  fell,  pierced  by  twelve  swords.  Crockett  and  his 
brave  men  had  indeed  died  with  the  Alamo  garrison. 

It  was  from  this  tragic  incident  that  the  war-cry 
was  derived, ' '  Remember  the  Alamo ! ' ' 

—368— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  YOUNG  LIEUTENANT 
IN  THE  HARBOR  OF  TRIPOLI 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  young  lieutenant 
who  carried  the  American  flag  into  the  Mediterranean, 
and  when  it  was  in  danger  of  being  dishonored,  set  fire  to  the 
frigate,  rather  than  see  it  fly  the  ensign  of  another  nation.    It  is  a 
tale  of  the  valor  that  forced  the  world  to  pay  honnage  to  the  new  republic. 

IT  WAS  in  the  winter  of  1803.    The  port  of  Tripoli 
was  blockaded  by  the  American  warships.    War 
had  been  declared  on  the  piratical  Barbary  States, 
to   put   an   end   to   their   infamous   practice   of 
capturing  citizens  of  foreign  countries  and  holding 
them  for  ransom.    Innumerable  tales  of  their  cruelty 
had  been  spread  abroad. 

The  new  Republic  of  the  United  States  was  paying 
tribute  like  other  great  powers  to  secure  freedom  from 
their  piratical  attacks,  and  decided  that  it  was  more 
honorable  to  pay  ''millions  for  defense,"  than  "one 
cent  for  tribute,"  and  American  ships  were  despatched 
to  punish  the  pirates. 

One  of  the  squadron,  the  Philadelphia,  had  run 
aground,  and  the  enemy  had  driven  the  crew  into  the 
sea  and  captured  the  frigate.  They  had  hauled  the 
ship  up  under  the  guns  of  the  forts  on  shore  and  placed 
a  crew  on  board  to  guard  it. 

The  Americans  outside  the  harbor  smarted  under 
the  humiliation  of  seeing  one  of  their  best  vessels  held 
and  manned  by  the  dusky  natives. 

—369— 


HERO  TALES 


A  young  lieutenant,  in  command  of  the  American 
ship  Enterprise,  stood  one  day  on  the  deck  of  his  ship, 
looking  across  the  water  toward  the  captured  Philadel- 
phia. The  tall,  slender  figure,  clad  in  the  picturesque 
uniform  of  a  lieutenant  of  the  navy,  strode  up  and 
down.  His  tanned  face,  stem  in  expression,  wore  a 
frown.  His  blue  eyes  were  studying  the  location  of  the 
captured  vessel. 

^ '  I  will  do  it, ' '  he  exclaimed. 

Ordering  his  gig-boat,  he  was  rowed  over  the  water 
to  the  flagship  of  the  squadron,  and  mounting  to  the 
deck,  he  disappeared  into  the  cabin  of  the  commanding 
officer  of  the  fleet. 

Shortly  afterward  he  emerged,  his  face  relaxed  and 
indicating  great  pleasure.  Back  to  his  own  little  Enter- 
prise he  hurried,  and  gaining  the  deck  he  called  his 
officers  in  conference.  His  plan  was  outlined  in  a  few 
sharp  words.  Some  of  his  brother  officers'  faces 
showed  exultation,  and  others  anxiety,  as  the  full  im- 
port of  their  commander's  words  came  to  them. 

Some  days  later,  a  group  of  muffled  figures,  some  in 
the  garb  of  the  Tripoli  people,  boarded  a  Tripolitan 
ketch,  and  set  the  sail.  Into  the  harbor,  the  boat  crept 
slowly,  laboring  along  as  though  in  distress.  The  little 
vessel  pursued  her  course  unnoticed,  until  nearly  into 
the  center  of  the  harbor.  Then  she  suddenly  turned 
and  headed  directly  for  the  Philadelphia.  No  vessels 
were  allowed  to  approach  close  to  this  ship,  as  the 
Tripolitans  feared  a  surprise  from  the  Americans. 

Still,  thought  the  commander  of  the  Tripolitans,  the 
Americans  would  not  dare  to  enter  the  harbor,  with 
one  small  boat,  with  all  the  guns  pointed  at  her.  Thus 
the  little  ketch  was  allowed  to  cross  the  danger-line  and 
to  approach  the  frigate. 

On  board  the  Philadelphia,  the  crew  of  Tripolitans 
—370— 


THE  YOUNG  LIEUTENANT 


were  lazily  working,  coiling  ropes,  painting  the  scarred 
boards  of  the  ship,  and  examining  the  guns  that  were 
double  shotted,  ready  to  repel  any  attempt  to  seize  her. 

The  gaze  of  the  red-capped  commander  of  the  Tri- 
politans  grew  fixed,  and  his  body  tense,  as  he  watched 
the  oncoming  boat.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  relaxed 
into  his  former  listless  attitude.  Suddenly,  he  straight- 
ened up  again.  He  saw  a  flash  of  light  in  the  bottom  of 
the  ketch.  Yes,  it  was  the  flash  of  a  gun  in  the  sunlight. 
He  gave  a  cry — and  just  then  the  little  boat  crashed 
into  the  side  of  the  Philadelphia. 

With  thrilling  cheers,  the  men  in  the  ketch  sprang 
for  the  sides  of  the  frigate.  Grasping  ropes,  anchor- 
chains, — anything  that  offered  a  hold — they  clambered 
over  the  side  onto  the  deck. 

The  affrighted  Tripolitans  shrank  back  at  the  sight 
of  the  Americans,  but  were  rallied  by  their  officers,  and, 
with  gnashing  teeth,  rushed  headlong  at  the  daring 
intruders.  The  young  American  lieutenant  in  the  lead 
met  the  thrust  of  a  cutlass  and  parried  it.  A  bullet 
whistled  by  his  head.  Everywhere  was  the  flash  of 
cutlass  and  pike.  Pistols  exploded  in  his  face.  Un- 
heeding the  danger  of  his  position,  in  the  center  of  all 
the  fire  from  the  frowning  fortresses  on  every  side  of 
the  harbor,  the  daring  lieutenant  cheered  his  men  on. 

With  a  mighty  rush,  as  of  tigers  at  their  prey,  the 
Tripolitans  were  driven  over  the  side  of  the  frigate 
into  the  sea,  and  the  ship  was  in  possession  of  the 
Americans.  The  alarm  spread  to  the  shore.  The  na- 
tives were  putting  out  in  boats  to  cut  off  retreat  from 
the  Philadelphia,  and  through  the  apertures  of  the 
forts,  guns  were  being  pointed  at  her.  Hoarse  cries 
were  heard  by  the  brave  attacking  party  as  the  officers 
in  the  forts  trained  their  muzzles  upon  them. 

The  American  seamen  stood  guard  on  the  captured 
—371— 


HERO  TALES 


vessel.  Down  the  hatchways,  figures  scuttled  to  open 
the  magazines.  They  reappeared,  laying  a  train  of 
powder  on  the  decks  of  the  gallant  frigate.  Now  they 
were  ready.  The  young  lieutenant  ordered  his  men 
into  the  ketch  alongside,  and  after  a  last  glance  about, 
he  applied  his  torch  to  the  serpentine  trail  of  glistening 
powder,  and,  as  it  began  to  hiss  and  sputter,  he  sprang 
into  the  little  boat  below. 

Hurriedly,  the  Americans  drew  away  from  the 
doomed  ship,  now  the  focus  of  a  terrific  bombardment 
from  the  forts.  Shells  roared  at  the  little  ketch.  Great 
geysers  of  water  shot  up  from  the  sea,  telling  where  a 
Tripolitan  shell  had  missed  its  mark.  The  bullets 
showered  around  them  like  hail. 

The  young  American  lieutenant,  still  unheeding  the 
fire  of  shell,  stood  in  the  stern  of  the  ketch  watching  the 
frigate.  The  great,  deserted  ship  lay  close  to  shore. 
Suddenly,  there  was  a  tremendous  explosion.  The 
frigate  seemed  to  rise  from  the  sea;  her  sides  burst 
apart;  her  deck  heaved  up.  The  towering  masts  top- 
pled as  a  great  flame  burst  through  the  port-holes  and 
hatchways,  and  the  gallant  Philadelphia  was  blown  into 
atoms. 

Long  into  the  night,  the  Americans  outside  the  har- 
bor could  see  the  flames  of  the  burning  frigate,  reflect- 
ing upon  the  lowering  sky,  a  monument  to  the  bravery 
and  daring  of  the  young  American  lieutenant  and  his 
men,  who,  through  all  their  daring  adventure,  under 
the  terrific  fire  of  the  enemy's  strong  forts,  did  not  lose 
a  life. 

For  his  valor,  the  young  American  lieutenant  was 
promoted  to  a  captaincy ;  Congress  presented  him  with 
a  sword,  and  the  name  of  Stephen  Decatur  will  be 
passed  down  the  generations  as  an  inspiration  to  man- 
hood. 

—372-- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SCHOOLGIRL  WHO 
SAVED  FORT  HENRY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  schoolgirl 
who  knew  no  fear;  who  was  willing  to  sacrifice  her 
life  rather  than  endanger  her  brother.    It  Is  a  tale  of  the  uncon- 
scious  heroism    of   girlhood   in  which  there    is   no  thought  of  self 
when  there  is  a  noble  duty  to  be  performed  for  those  whom  she  loves. 

IT  WAS  back  in  the  days  of  old  Fort  Henry,  in 
1782,    on    the    borderland    between    aboriginal 
America  and  the  new  republic.     The  capital  of 
West  Virginia  was  then  a  small  settlement  con- 
sisting of  about  twenty-five  log  huts.    Its  stronghold 
of  defense  was  ''Fort  Henry,"  situated  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  little  village. 

The  hostile  red-men  laid  siege  to  the  village  and 
the  terrified  settlers  sought  refuge  in  the  nearby  fort. 
It  was  a  long  and  tedious  battle.  The  fort  was  so 
strongly  guarded  that  the  redskins  at  first  made  little 
impression  upon  it,  but  one  by  one  the  inmates  dropped 
away,  until  only  eighteen  remained  of  the  forty-two 
who  had  fled  there  for  protection. 

Almost  overcome  by  fatigue,  they  kept  constant 
watch  for  the  enemy  which  surrounded  the  fort.  Few 
were  allowed  to  leave  the  gates,  for  the  attempt  meant 
probable  death.  It  became  necessary,  however,  to  have 
reinforcements,  and  messengers  were  safely  despatched 
to  neighboring  villages.  Before  they  had  the  time  to 
secure  help  for  the  fort,  a  new  and  bewildering  trouble 

--373— 


HERO  TALES 


befell  its  garrison.  To  their  horror,  they  found  that 
the  ammunition  was  giving  out,  and  that  if  more  were 
not  somehow  obtained,  they  must  fall  victims  to  their 
savage  foes.  As  soon  as  they  suspected  that  the  white 
men  were  out  of  powder  or  shot  they  would  advance 
and  take  the  fort  with  little  resistance,  probably  mas- 
sacring and  scalping  the  whole  company. 

Brave  Colonel  Zane,  the  commander  of  the  fort,  was 
nearly  worn  out  from  the  constant  watch  which  he  had 
been  keeping.  He  peered  out  of  the  fort  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  own  home.  There  it  was,  still  standing,  and 
not  more  than  sixty  rods  from  the  spot  where  he  was 
taking  his  observations. 

' '  We  must  have  ammunition, ' '  he  said  to  his  friends, 
* '  or  we  are  lost.  There  is  a  keg  of  powder  in  my  house, 
but  how  can  we  get  it!" 

Courageous  young  men  advanced  and  offered  them- 
selves for  the  hazardous  service. 

"It  is  a  great  risk,"  said  the  commander,  "and 
there  are  so  few  of  us  left  that  we  must  husband  our 
strength.  We  cannot  afford  to  lose  more  than  one 
man. ' ' 

The  volunteers,  never  flinching,  still  stood  ready. 

' '  We  cannot  afford  to  lose  even  one  man.  A  woman 
ought  to  go,"  spoke  clearly  a  girl's  voice  at  the  side  of 
the  Colonel. 

Every  eye  turned  instantly  to  the  speaker.  Stand- 
ing there,  lovely  to  look  upon,  in  the  glory  of  her  youth, 
yet  with  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure  portraying 
courage  and  determination,  was  Miss  Betsy  Zane,  the 
sister  of  the  Colonel.  She  had  uttered  the  thought  that 
was  in  each  man's  mind,  but  which  would  have  never 
been  spoken  by  any  of  them. 

She  had  just  come  from  a  fashionable  boarding- 
school  in  Philadelphia,   and  had  been  visiting  her 

—374— 


THE  SCHOOLGIRL 


brother,  when  the  Indian  outbreak  occurred.  With 
him  she  had  fled  to  the  fort.  Strange,  indeed,  sounded 
the  words  of  this  daughter  of  culture,  amid  the  boom 
of  the  guns  of  this  frontier  fort  in  the  wilderness. 

''A  woman  adds  no  strength  to  the  garrison,"  she 
insisted.     ''Please  let  me  go." 

''You I"  cried  the  Colonel,  shocked  at  the  mere 
suggestion. 

' '  Yes,  me, ' '  she  replied.  ' '  I  know  where  the  powder 
lies,  so  that  it  would  take  me  less  time  than  anyone 
else.  And  as  I  said  before,  you  cannot  spare  even  one 
man  to  take  the  risk." 

"The  risk  will  be  as  great  to  you  as  to  a  man," 
replied  her  brother,  only  partly  persuaded  by  the  girl's 
earnestness. 

"Bah,  the  Indians  wouldn't  think  a  white  woman 
worth  a  charge  of  powder  and  lead,"  she  answered. 
"If  we  were  within  tomahawking  distance,  it  might  be 
different.  But  even  then  the  garrison  would  be  as 
strong  as  before  without  me." 

The  girl,  who,  as  tradition  tells,  was  of  rare  grace 
and  beauty,  pleaded  more  earnestly  than  ever,  when  she 
saw  their  determined  opposition  to  her  plan  and  pur- 
pose. But  dire  necessity  more  than  the  girl's  entreaties, 
was  causing  them  to  relent. 

With  a  heart  full  of  misgiving,  Colonel  Zane  finally 
swung  open  the  gate.  His  sister  stepped  out  into  the 
roadway.  The  savages  were  dismayed  when  they  saw 
a  woman  come  forth  so  daringly,  but  not  a  rifle  was 
raised  as  the  young  girl  darted  from  the  garrison  to  the 
deserted  house.  They  could  only  believe  that  she  must 
be  a  decoy,  sent  to  engage  them  on  one  side  while  they 
were  attacked  on  another.  She,  therefore,  reached  the 
house  in  safety  and  the  Indians  kept  closely  to  their 
shelter. 

—375— 


HERO  TALES 


It  was  hardly  a  moment  before  the  door  of  the  house 
swung  open  again,  and  Miss  Zane  emerged  carrying  the 
powder  in  her  apron.  Instantly,  the  whole  proceed- 
ing was  clear  to  the  enemy.  There  was  naturally  but 
one  conclusion :  the  powder  was  getting  low  or  no  one 
would  have  taken  such  a  dangerous  chance. 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  rifles  were  leveled 
at  the  girl  and  hundreds  of  bullets  whistled  about  her 
head.     Like  a  panther  she  sped  on  to  the  fort. 

The  men  in  the  fort  watched  her  breathlessly.  As 
she  came  near  to  the  gate,  it  opened  to  receive  her  and 
closed  again. 

She  laid  the  precious  burden  at  the  Colonel's  feet, 
while  a  shout  went  up  for  the  girl  who  was  willing  to 
sacrifice  her  life  to  save  others. 

Miraculous  as  it  may  seem,  she  had  not  received 
a  wound.  She  had  remained  unscathed  through  the 
rain  of  fire  and  bullets,  as  if  protected  by  some  unseen 
power. 

The  village  that  was  saved  from  destruction  by 
Betsy  Zane,  has  become  a  large  and  prosperous  city, 
the  capital  of  its  rich  state.  Who  knows  but  that  its 
existence  to-day  is  due  to  her  bravery,  and  that,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  her,  the  settlement  swept  away  by  the 
Indians  would  never  again  have  been  rebuilt? 


"A  hundred  years  have  passed  since  then; 
The  savage  never  came  again. 
Upon  those  half-cleared,  rolling  Iands» 
A  crowded  city  proudly  stands; 
But  of  the  many  who  reside 
By  green  Ohio's  rushing  tide, 
Not  one  has  lineage  prouder  than 
(Be  he  poor  or  rich^  the  man 
Who  boasts  that  in  his  spotless  strain 
Mingles  the  blood  of  Betsy  Zane." 

—376— 


THE   TALE    OF    THE   WRECKING   TUG 
AT  THE  STATUE  OF  LIBERTY 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  wrecking  tug  captain 
at  the  gate  of  the  new  world  J  a  tale  of  everyday  life 
among  the  men  who  patrol  the  waters  at  the  port  of  the  greatest 
metropolis  of    western    civilization    and    offer    their    lives    to    safe- 
guard the  commerce  and  the  trade  of  a  great  and  prosperous  people. 

IT  "WAS  early  one  morning  in  January,  in  1905. 
A  ferry-boat  was  slowly  picking  its  way  through 
the  ice-floes  in  the  Hudson  Eiver.  It  was  the  first 
morning  trip,  carrying  the  workers  from  their 
homes  to  their  duties  in  New  York  City.  The  boat  was 
crowded  with  men,  women,  and  children,  and  the  drive- 
ways were  choked  with  the  champing,  crowding  horses 
of  delivery  wagons  and  trucks.  The  weather  had  been 
bitterly  cold  for  weeks  and  the  keen  northwest  winds 
had  blown  the  great  fields  of  floating  ice  into  a  compact 
mass  along  the  New  York  shore  of  the  river. 

The  ferryboat  was  sturdily  breasting  the  water  and 
ice,  and  was  gathering  strength  for  another  plunge 
against  the  stubbornly  resisting  mass,  when  a  great 
ocean-going  tug-boat  loomed  directly  in  her  sea  path. 
The  pilot  of  the  tug,  seeing  the  danger,  shifted  his 
wheel  to  avoid  a  collision,  but  tide  and  wind  were  too 
strong  for  him,  and  with  a  tremendous  crash,  the  tug 
rammed  the  ferry  boat  amidships.  Shriek  after  shriek 
went  up  from  the  women.  Terror  was  rampant. 
Mothers,  with  blanched  faces,  seized  their  children  in 

—377— 


HERO  TALES 


their  arms,  while  panic-stricken  men  leaped  the  rails 
to  escape  the  plunging,  overthrown  horses. 

The  disabled  boat  careened  wildly  from  the  shock 
and  turned  helplessly  over  on  her  side.  It  seemed  only 
a  question  of  a  minute  when  the  boat  would  sink  to  the 
bottom  with  her  precious  cargo  of  human  life.  The 
bitterly  cold  water  rushed  into  the  gash  in  the  hull  of 
the  doomed  boat,  with  a  fear-inspiring  sound. 

Not  far  away  was  the  wrecking- tug,  Reliance, 
steaming  slowly  along,  with  Captain  Thomas  A.  Scott 
on  the  forward  deck.  He  ran  his  experienced  eye  along 
the  water-line  of  the  crippled  boat,  now  exposed  to  full 
view,  and  immediately  noted  the  only  hope  of  saving 
the  vessel.  With  a  cat-like  spring,  he  hurled  himself 
from  the  security  of  his  own  ship  to  the  rail  of  the 
stricken  craft,  and  without  a  moment's  delay  he  pro- 
ceeded about  his  work  of  rescue.  Thrusting  aside  the 
hands  of  the  kneeling  women,  who  were  blessing  him, 
he  tore  off  the  life-preserver  from  the  man  standing 
nearest  him  and  threw  it  overboard. 

''Follow  me!"  he  shouted. 

Such  confidence  did  the  personality  of  this  man 
inspire,  that  the  horde  of  badly  frightened  passengers 
followed  him  up  the  inclined  deck.  Slipping  and  grasp- 
ing at  hand  holds,  they  stood  until  the  shifted  weight  of 
the  passengers  had  righted  the  boat  nearly  to  an  even 
keel. 

' '  Any  man  that  stirs,  will  go  overboard, ' '  he  shouted. 

With  this  threat,  he  rushed  for  the  ladder  leading 
to  the  engine-room,  and  met  the  engineer  coming  up, 
deserting  his  post.  Captain  Scott  drove  him  back  to 
the  engine-room  and  looked  at  the  terrible  hole  in  the 
side  of  the  boat.  The  size  of  the  gash  was  discouraging, 
but  casting  about,  he  found  some  mattresses  on  the 
bunks  of  the  boat's  crew.    Snatching  one  of  these,  he 

—378— 


THE  WRECKING  TUG 


hurried  to  the  vent  through  which  the  cold  water  of 
the  river  was  pouring  in  torrents,  and  with  super- 
human strength  he  forced  the  mattress  into  the  breach. 
The  engineer  had  brought  up  other  mattresses  and 
blankets,  sheets,  clothes,  carpets,  and  whatever  else  he 
could  find.  These  the  captain  crammed  into  the  great 
rent  until  nearly  all  the  space  left  by  the  prow  of  the 
ocean-tug  had  been  filled.  Working  against  time,  for 
the  threatened  boat  was  likely  to  go  down  at  any 
minute,  these  men  labored  to  save  the  lives  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  passengers  on  deck,  who  were  clinging  and 
crowding  against  the  rail  in  the  bitter  winter  air,  fear- 
ing that  any  instant  the  boat  would  go  to  the  bottom 
with  all  on  board. 

*' Another  mattress — quick!  All  gone?  A  blanket 
then;  carpet — anything.  Five  minutes  more  and  she'll 
right  herself.    Quick,  for  God's  sake!" 

It  was  useless.    Every  rag  even  had  been  used. 

*'Your  coat  then.  Think  of  the  babies,  man.  Do 
you  hear  them?" 

Coats  and  vests  were  off  in  an  instant,  the  engineer 
on  his  knees  braced  the  shattered  planks,  and  Captain 
Scott  forced  the  garments  into  the  splintered  opening. 

The  water  was  gaining.  Captain  Scott  stood  up  for 
a  moment  undecided,  and  ran  his  eyes  over  the  engine- 
room  searching  for  more  material,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing for  his  needs.  Deliberately,  he  turned  to  the  frail 
wall  of  cloth  that  separated  them  from  the  turbulent, 
heaving  waters.  Grasping  the  weak  calking,  he  tore 
down  a  part  of  it,  and  before  the  engineer  could  inter- 
fere, he  thrust  his  own  body  into  the  breach  with  one 
arm  protruding  through  the  gap  into  the  cold  water, 
where  the  ice  beat  against  it  fearfully. 

What  heroism !  Not  the  inspired  heroism  done  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  and  over  in  an  instant,  but  the 

—379— 


HERO  TALES 


deliberate  placing  of  his  own  body  in  danger  and  suffer- 
ing to  remain  until  the  ship  could  be  towed  to  shore 
and  the  passengers  could  be  landed  safely — the  only 
bulwark  between  life  and  death. 

An.  hour  later  the  disabled  boat  was  towed  back  to 
its  slip,  the  floating  ice  buffeting  it  continually,  with 
the  heroic  Captain  Scott  still  crowded  into  the  gash  in 
its  side — every  passenger  on  board  had  been  saved  by 
the  heroic  sacrifice  of  the  courageous  captain. 

When  they  lifted  him  from  his  position  he  was 
unconscious  and  barely  alive.  The  water  had  frozen 
his  blood  and  the  floating  ice  had  mangled  his  arm  fear- 
fully. When  the  color  began  to  come  back  to  his 
cheeks,  he  opened  his  eyes  slowly  and  said  to  the  doctor 
bandaging  his  wounds : 

^'Wuz  any  of  them  babies  hurt!" 


"Not  in  the  dire,  ensanguined  front  of  war, 
Conquered  or  conquerer, 

'Mid  tlie  dread  battle-peal,  did  they  go  down 
To  the  still  under-sea  s,  with  fair  Renown 
To  weave  for  them  the  hero-martyr's  crown. 
They  struck  no  bloAV 
'Gainst  an  embattled  foe; 
With  valiant-hearted  Saxon  hardihood 
They  stood  not  as  the  Essex  sailors  stood, 
So  sore  bestead  in  that  far  Chilian  bay; 
Yet  no  less  faithful  they. 

"What  though  they  faced  no  storm  of  iron  hail 
That  freedom  and  the  right  might  still  prevail? 
The  path  of  duty  it  was  theirs  to  tread 
To  death's  dark  vale  through  ways  of  travail  led." 


—380- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE  IN 
THE  SANTEE  SWAMP 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  soldier's  wife 
who  defied  starvation  while  her  husband  was  fighting  for 
the  flag   of  his  country.     It  is  but  the  simple  story  of  one  of 
thousands  of  American  women  whose  heroism  at  home  in  time  of 
war  is  fully  as  noble  as  that  on  the  battle-line  before  the  cannon's  mouth. 

DOWN  in  the  Sumter  District  of  South  Carolina 
lived  Dorcas  Richardson.  The  American 
Revolution  was  sweeping  the  land,  and  the 
South  was  standing  heroically  for  the  flag. 
Dorcas,  when  only  twenty  years  of  age,  was  mar- 
ried to  Richard  Richardson,  and  went  with  her  husband 
to  a  prosperous  plantation.  For  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed, to  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  war,  Mrs. 
Richardson  enjoyed  all  the  comforts  of  life  in  the  sunny 
South. 

Then  the  struggle  began.  Her  husband  enlisted 
and  was  made  captain  of  a  militia  company.  For 
the  six  years  following,  he  was  seldom  able  to  be 
at  home  with  his  family.  When  Charleston  surren- 
dered, he  was  taken  prisoner  and  confined  on  John's 
Island,  and  while  there  he  was  afflicted  with  the  dread 
disease,  small-pox.  So  changed  was  the  captain's 
appearance  after  he  had  recovered  from  the  ravages 
of  this  disfiguring  ailment  that  he  was  able,  unrecog- 
nized, to  make  his  escape  from  the  island.  He  found 
refuge  in  the  Santee  Swamp,  in  the  neighborhood  of 


HERO  TALES 


his  home.  This  swamp-land  was  bordered  by  dense 
woods  and  deep  thickets ;  the  trees,  growing  close 
together,  were  wound  round  and  round  with  creeping, 
clinging  vines.  Here  it  was  that  many  despairing 
Americans  had  hidden  themselves  in  times  of  danger. 

The  British  were  sweeping  the  South,  leaving 
desolation  everywhere  in  their  path.  While  Captain 
Richardson  was  away  at  the  war,  they  entered  his 
home.  A  regiment  of  cavalry  were  making  their  head- 
quarters there,  enjoying  the  luxuries  of  his  crops  and 
orchards,  while  Mrs.  Richardson  and  her  children 
were  driven  to  a  room  in  the  rear  of  the  old  mansion 
and  were  given  only  sufficient  rations  to  keep  them 
alive.  She  dared  not  complain.  Each  day  she  took  a 
portion  of  the  food  that  was  given  to  her  and  smuggled 
it  away  to  her  husband  to  keep  him  from  starvation. 
This  dangerous  errand  she  intrusted  to  an  old  servant 
who  had  been  on  the  plantation  many  years,  and  knew 
every  inch  of  the  swamp  where  the  husband  was 
hiding. 

Mrs.  Richardson,  to  comfort  and  console  her  hus- 
band in  his  loneliness,  now  and  then  made  the  hazardous 
journey  to  the  swamp.  He  longed  to  see  his  children; 
so  one  day  she  took  her  little  daughter  with  her  and 
returned  in  safety.  In  a  short  time,  however,  the 
British  became  aware  of  Captain  Richardson's  escape. 
Scouts  were  sent  in  every  direction,  searching  for  him, 
and  rewards  were  offered  for  his  capture.  These  were 
days  of  agony  to  Mrs.  Richardson,  who  felt  that  the 
hour  was  near  when  her  husband  must  be  delivered  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  a  British  officer,  eager  to 
learn  something  concerning  the  whereabouts  of  the 
escaped  American  captain,  came  to  the  Richardson 
home.    He  took  the  little  daughter  on  his  knee,  and, 

—382— 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE 


caressing  her,  asked  when  she  had  last  seen  her  father. 
The  innocent  child  replied  very  promptly  that  she  had, 
seen  him  only  a  few  days  before. 

*' And  where?"  persisted  the  officer. 

**0n  John's  Island,"  replied  the  little  girl.  The 
officer  knowing  of  no  place  by  that  name  except  the 
island  from  which  Captain  Richardson  had  escaped, 
remarked  impatiently. 

''Pshaw,  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

Mrs.  Richardson  was  overjoyed;  and,  when  the 
officer  had  left  the  house,  she  proudly  took  her  little 
daughter  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  fervently. 

"You  are  a  brave  little  girl,"  she  said,  "You  have 
saved  your  father." 

Not  many  days  later,  the  British  were  called  away. 
Mrs.  Richardson  hurried  with  the  news  to  her  husband. 
Under  the  cover  of  night,  he  came  from  his  hiding-place 
in  the  swamps  and  hurried  to  his  home.  An  hour  had 
passed  and  his  heart  was  greatly  cheered.  He  stepped 
to  the  window  to  let  his  eyes  rest  once  more  on  his 
plantation. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Richardson, 
catching  the  look  of  pallor  that  passed  over  his 
face. 

* '  The  British  are  entering  the  gate, ' '  exclaimed  her 
husband  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

Mrs.  Richardson  looked  from  the  window.  A 
patrolling  party,  that  had  been  left  to  guard  the  house, 
was  coming  up  the  front  walk. 

' '  Quick !  Quick ! ' '  she  commanded,  dragging  at  her 
husband's  arm,  "Go  to  the  back  door  and  flee  to  the 
woods.    I'll  take  care  of  them  here." 

Mrs.  Richardson  stepped  to  the  front  door,  and,  as 
the  soldiers  approached,  she  was  working  busily,  sweep- 
ing and  dusting  the  entrance.     The  soldiers  commended 

—383— 


HERO  TALES 


her  industry,  and  she  fell  into  a  conversation  with  them 
about  the  weather  and  their  health.  Not  the  least  sign 
of  agitation  was  visible  in  the  brave  woman's  face,  and 
the  soldiers,  waiting  for  admittance,  never  suspected 
the  tumult  that  raged  in  her  heart. 

Captain  Eichardson  was  soon  in  his  refuge  in  the 
swamp,  and  not  long  after  safely  entered  the  ranks  of 
Major  Marion.  His  longing,  however,  to  again  see  his 
home,  soon  overcame  him.  As  he  was  coming  in  dis- 
guise along  the  plantation,  he  was  spied  by  a  Tory.  He 
had  hardly  reached  his  home  when  it  was  surrounded. 
He  fled  from  the  rear  door,  mounted  his  horse,  which 
was  standing  near,  and  dashed  away  amid  a  volley  of 
shot,  without  receiving  a  wound. 

The  British  were  so  impressed  by  his  daring  that 
they  wrote  a  secret  dispatch  to  him,  offering  him  wealth 
and  power  if  he  would  join  the  King's  army.  The  mes- 
sage was  intrusted  to  Mrs.  Richardson,  who  slipped  a 
second  message  into  the  hands  of  her  servant,  entreat- 
ing her  husband  to  hold  fast  to  his  own  country, 
heroically  assuring  him  that  the  family  were  well, 
happy,  and  supplied  with  all  the  necessaries  of  life.  As 
she  wrote  these  lines,  she  was  half-starved,  and  was 
clothed  in  rags,  but  she  denied  it  all,  in  the  fear  that  her 
husband  might  be  tempted  to  renounce  his  allegiance  to 
the  great  cause  that  she  loved. 

The  war  was  soon  over.  Captain  Richardson 
returned  to  his  plantation,  and  the  rest  of  his  days 
were   spent   repaying   the   devotion   of  his   faithful 


wife. 


—384— 


THE   TALE   OF    THE    SURVEYOR   WHO 
SAVED  THE  MIDDLE  WEST 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  surveyor 
who  saved  the  great  dominion  of  the  Middle  West  to 
American  civilization,  who  held  the  vast  territory  against  the 
onslaughts  of  King  and  savage  and  planted  the  American  flag  for- 
ever on  its  rich  domain,  but  passed  out  his  own  life  alone  and  in  poverty. 

IT  WAS  in  May,  in  1778,  that  a  band  of  picturesque 
frontiersmen,  one  hundred  and  sixty  strong, 
drifted  down  the  Ohio  River  in  flat-boats.  They 
were  tall,  gaunt  men,  clad  in  the  leather  hunting 
shirts  and  leggings,  that  marked  the  huntsman  of  that 
period.  Their  leader,  George  Rogers  Clark,  was  a 
very  strong  man,  with  light  hair  and  a  determined 
countenance,  in  every  respect  a  striking-looking  figure. 
Before  reaching  the  Mississippi,  the  rafts  were 
poled  to  the  shore,  and  the  band  landed,  to  march  on 
the  Illinois  towns  held  by  the  English,  their  foes.  The 
British  commander  of  the  entire  Northwestern  district, 
up  to  Detroit,  had  his  headquarters  in  Kaskaskia,  one 
of  the  small  Illinois  towns,  and  for  Kaskaskia  the 
determined  men  were  headed. 

The  strong  garrison  of  English  and  Creole  militia, 
closely  allied  with  the  Indians,  greatly  outnumbered 
the  small  force  marching  against  them,  but  the  intrepid 
leader  of  the  band  determined  to  attack  the  town. 
Through  the  woods  they  wound  their  silent  way,  hiding 
by  day  and  marching  by  night  until  they  came  within 

—385— 


HERO  TALES 


striking  distance  of  the  garrison.  Clark  had  planned 
to  take  the  garrison  by  surprise,  and  without  firing  a 
gun. 

The  English  officers,  resting  in  their  belief  of 
security,  were  given  to  entertainment,  and  this  night, 
on  the  Fourth  of  July,  were  giving  a  great  ball  to  the 
pleasure-loving  Creoles. 

The  fort  was  a  blaze  of  light,  and  through  the 
windows  could  be  seen  the  rapidly  whirling  figures,  as 
the  English  officers  and  Creole  maids  swung  through 
the  dances.  Even  the  soldiers,  who  should  have  been 
at  their  posts,  were  there,  joining  in  the  revelry,  which 
was  at  its  heighth  when  a  tall  figure,  clad  in  hunting 
costume,  passed  unnoticed  through  the  door-way,  and 
quietly  leaned  against  the  wall.  For  some  moments  the 
man  stood  there,  watching  the  whirling  dancers  in  the 
glare  of  the  torches. 

Suddenly,  a  wild  warwhoop  rang  through  the  room, 
as  an  Indian  sprang  to  his  feet  from  the  floor,  where  he 
had  been  lying,  carefully  scrutinizing  the  gaunt  figure 
of  the  stranger.  The  dancing  ceased  abruptly,  and 
girls  were  left  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  as  the  men 
rushed  about  in  confusion.  The  stranger  stepped  for- 
ward and  bade  them  be  quiet;  but,  "henceforth,"  he 
said,  "you  dance  under  the  United  States  flag,  and  not 
under  that  of  England." 

The  audacity  of  the  stranger  and  his  singular  words 
utterly  bewildered  the  dancers ;  but  when  they  looked 
through  the  door,  and  saw  the  determined  faces  of  the 
wild-looking  men  outside,  they  understood  the  confi- 
dence which  was  expressed  in  the  words  of  their  daring 
leader. 

The  surprise  had  been  complete,  and  the  village  was 
indeed  in  the  possession  of  the  Americans.  Clark  then 
addressed  the  Creoles  and  said,  "We  come  as  your 

—386— 


THE  SURVEYOR 


allies,  not  as  foes."  He  promised  them  that  if  they 
would  join  forces  with  him  they  would  be  citizens  of  the 
United  States,  and  treated  in  all  respects  on  an  equality 
with  his  comrades.  The  fickle  Creoles  had  not  cared 
much  for  the  English,  and  readily  consented.  They 
were  so  enthusiastic,  that  they  sent  messengers  to  the 
other  Creoles  on  the  Wabash,  and  induced  them  to  join 
with  the  Americans.  Clark  was  now  complete  master 
of  the  village;  but  when  the  British  governor,  Ham- 
ilton, at  Detroit,  heard  of  the  surprise,  he  prepared  to 
drive  the  Americans  out. 

In  the  fall  of  that  year,  he  loaded  a  great  fleet  of 
war-canoes  with  five  hundred  fighting-men — French, 
Indians,  and  British  soldiers — and  landed  at  Vincennes. 
The  Vincennes  Creoles  refused  to  fight  against  the 
British,  and  the  American  officer  stationed  there  was 
forced  to  surrender  to  the  superior  force  of  soldiers. 

Winter  came  on,  and  the  British  commander  decided 
to  remain  at  Vincennes  until  the  following  spring.  He 
disbanded  the  Indians,  and  sent  part  of  his  soldiers 
back  to  Detroit,  believing  himself  safe  from  molestation 
by  the  Americans. 

Clark  was  a  man  of  great  courage  and  endurance, 
and  when  he  wanted  men  to  accompany  him  on  the  ter- 
rible trip  against  the  English  through  the  heavy  snows 
and  cold  winds,  the  men  under  him  proved  their  valor 
by  accompanying  him.  Through  the  deep  drifts,  fight- 
ing their  way  against  the  storms  of  winter,  wading  for 
days  at  a  time  through  icy  cold  streams,  this  band  of 
heroic  men  struggled  in  the  defense  of  their  country 
and  flag.  Only  Clark's  indomitable  courage  and  cheer- 
fulness kept  the  party  encouraged  to  overcome  the 
tremendous  difficulties.  He  inspired  his  men  with  his 
example,  and  they  took  up  the  trail  with  increased 
vigor. 

—387— 


HERO  TALES 


At  last,  on  the  twenty-third  day  of  February,  in 
1779,_they  came  in  sight  of  Vincennes.  On  the  out- 
skirts of  the  village,  they  captured  a  Creole  duck- 
hunter,  and  sent  him  with  a  message  to  the  Creole 
townspeople  and  Indians,  warning  them  that  he  was 
about  to  attack  the  town,  but  that  his  quarrel  was  with 
the  English,  not  the  others. 

The  message  threw  the  terrified  Creoles  and  Indians 
into  a  panic,  the  latter  fleeing  to  the  woods,  while  the 
former  took  refuge  in  their  homes. 

Up  the  street,  marched  the  tall,  stalwart  leader  and 
his  loyal  followers.  Through  the  town  they  passed  to 
the  fort  at  the  end  of  the  village. 

"What  could  this  mean?"  wondered  the  British. 
* '  Could  those  men  have  braved  the  fury  of  the  winter, 
to  attack  the  fortified  town?" 

Before  they  had  time  to  answer  the  question  them- 
selves, a  bullet  fired  from  the  band  of  trappers  con- 
firmed the  suspicion  of  the  Britons,  and  there  was  a 
rush  to  close  the  great  gate  of  the  besieged  fort,  to  keep 
the  invaders  out.  With  a  crash  the  gate  swung  to,  in 
the  face  of  the  Americans. 

Clark  surrounded  the  fort  with  his  men  and  kept  the 
British  penned  in  all  night.  The  next  day  a  party  of 
Indians,  allies  of  the  British,  arrived,  and  marched  up 
to  the  fort ;  in  their  belts  were  scalps  of  white  men  and 
women.  The  Americans,  concealed  from  view,  recog- 
nized these  horrible  trophies  of  the  chase.  With  gleam- 
ing eyes  and  bodies  drawn  taut  with  horror,  they  gave 
their  battle-cry  and  rushed  upon  the  red  men.  They 
were  in  no  mood  to  show  mercy.  Eifles  cracked,  knives 
gleamed  in  the  light,  and  the  Americans  set  furiously 
upon  the  treacherous  savages.  The  battle  did  not  last 
long,  and  when  the  frontiersmen  drew  off,  there  was 
not  an  Indian  surviving. 

—388^ 


THE  SURVEYOR 


For  some  time  the  English  defended  well  their 
position  in  the  fort,  but  they  were  at  the  mercy  of  the 
American  riflemen,  who,  with  accurate  aim,  picked  off 
the  gunners  of  the  fort.  So  sure  was  the  fire  of  these 
trappers,  hunters,  frontiersmen  and  soldiers,  that  the 
British  did  not  dare  go  near  the  port-holes,  to  answer 
the  fire,  and  the  fort  was  forced  to  surrender. 

George  Rogers  Clark  and  his  band  of  one  hundred 
and  sixty  loyal  followers,  overcoming  almost  insur- 
mountable obstacles  and  enduring  the  most  frightful 
suffering,  had  defeated  the  larger  force  of  British  sol- 
diers, and  reclaimed  the  great  Middle  West  for  the 
young  republic,  the  United  States  of  America. 


"Up  with  the  banner  of  the  free! 
Its  stars  and  stripes   unfurled! 
And  let  the  battle  beauty  blaze 
Above  a  startled  world. 

"That  flag  with  constellated  stars 
Shines  ever  in  the  van! 
And  like  the  rainbow  in  the  storm. 
Presages  peace  to  man. 

"It  seeks  no  conquest,  knows  no  fear; 
Cares  not  for  pomp  or  state; 
As  pliant  as  the  atmosphere, 
As  resolute  as  Fate. 

"Where'er  it  floats,  on  land  or  sea, 
No  stain  its  honor  mars. 
And  Freedom  smiles,  her  fate  secure 
Beneath  its  steadfast  stars." 


—389- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FLOOD  THAT  RACED 
WITH  THE  HORSEMAN  OFCONEMAUGH 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  flood 
that  swept  down  a  peaceful  valley,'"upon  a  city  un- 
awares, in  a  life  and  death  race  with  a  horseman  who  cried 
to  his  people  to  flee  to  the  safety  of  the  hills,  while  the  waters 
licked  at  the  feet  of  his  horse  and  finally  engulfed  him  in  their  rage. 

IT  WAS  the  last  day  of  May,  in  the  year  1889.  The 
city  of  Johnstown,  in  western  Pennsylvania,  lay 
on  the  bank  of  the  Conemaugh  River,  near  its 
junction  with  the  Ohio,  one  of  the  main  tributaries 
of  the  mighty  Mississippi.  The  surrounding  country 
is  rough  and  mountainous.  Behind  the  city  high  hills 
range,  seemingly  trying  to  push  the  town  into  the 
river. 

It  had  been  raining  for  days  and  the  Conemaugh 
was  swollen,  and  rushing  by  the  piers  of  the  city  at  a 
fearful  rate  of  speed.  The  people  of  Johnstown  had 
often  seen  the  river  during  the  Spring  freshets,  as  it 
poured  down  from  the  mountains,  and  seldom  gave 
serious  thought  to  its  swirling  waters. 

On  the  banks  and  on  the  hills  of  the  city,  a  few  anxious 
people  gazed  in  awe  at  the  dashing  water,  and,  when 
supper-time  approached,  and  dusk  began  to  settle  over 
the  town,  they  could  not  tear  themselves  away  from  the 
fascinating  sight. 

To  their  ears  suddenly  came  a  sound,  unlike  any- 
thing thev  had  ever  heard  before.     Far  up  the  valley 

—390— 


THE  FLOOD 


they  could  see  a  dark  shape,  one  end  of  it  seeming  to 
run  ahead  of  the  other,  and  then  to  lag  behind,  as  the 
other  end  leaped  forward  and  overtook  its  companion. 
The  upper  side  of  this  curious,  irregular  object  was 
jagged,  and  covered  with  little  square  specks,  tossing 
about  in  the  gloom. 

With  rising  curiosity,  they  watched  the  unusual 
sight  as  it  came  nearer  and  near  their  town.  The  news 
spread  and  soon  the  hills  were  crowded  with  people, 
straining  their  eyes,  trying  to  make  out  the  tossing 
shapes,  which  were  coming  down  the  valley. 

Suddenly,  a  boy  in  the  crowd  cried  out : 

**  Houses." 

The  spell  was  broken.  A  look  of  horror  settled  over 
the  faces  of  the  dazed  crowd  of  people.  Far  down  the 
road,  from  the  village  of  Conemaugh  to  Johnstown,  a 
vague  shape  appeared  out  of  the  dusk,  rising  and  fall- 
ing with  the  regularity  of  a  pendulum.  Soon  the  people 
could  make  out  the  figure  of  a  man  astride  a  great,  bay 
horse,  riding  in  desperation.  To  their  ears  came  a 
faint  cry.  He  seemed  to  be  calling,  but  he  was  too  far 
away  to  be  understood.  Again  he  screamed  as  if  in 
mortal  agony.  This  time  the  words  echoed  along  the 
valley : 

''Run  for  your  lives!  Run  for  your  lives!  The 
dam  has  broken  I ' ' 

Understanding  came  to  the  bewildered  throng.  The 
giant  dam  of  the  South  Fork  Fishing  Club,  far  back  in 
the  hills,  had  broken,  and  down  through  the  narrow 
valley,  like  a  thousand  demons  mad  with  rage,  rushed 
millions  of  tons  of  water.  Like  a  gigantic  broom,  it 
was  sweeping  towns,  cities,  and  villages  into  the  fearful 
torrent.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  high  wall  of 
water,  crowned  by  masses  of  wreckage;  houses,  huge 
trees,  beams,  and  human  beings. 

—391— 


HERO  TALES 


Through  the  streets  of  Johnstown,  the  horseman 
dashed,  shouting  in  his  mighty  voice :  ' '  Run,  the  dam 
has  broken.     Get  up  into  the  hills  for  your  lives." 

On  he  rode,  spreading  his  warning,  the  hideous  flood 
lapping  at  his  heels,  and  gaining  on  the  heroic  rider  at 
every  stride.  Then,  in  an  instant  he  passed  out  of  the 
sight  of  the  horror-stricken  populace. 

In  the  onrushing  flood  were  to  be  seen,  giant  logs 
ard  trees ;  great  masses  of  wreckage  were  thrown  high 
in  the  air,  the  remains  of  dwellings  and  workshops — 
all  moving  with  an  awful  steadiness,  resistless  as  fate, 
toward  the  doomed  Johnstown. 

The  distant  rumbling  grew  louder  and  louder.  Then, 
with  a  mighty  roar  the  flood  reached  the  city,  on  and 
over  the  tops  of  its  roofs,  devouring  all  that  lay  in  its 
path  like  a  gaping  monster.  High  on  the  crest  of  the 
mighty  mass  of  water,  crashing  and  grinding,  it  carried 
the  homes  of  the  people  of  the  valley. 

The  awful  mass  thundered  by ;  presently  it  seemed 
to  slacken  its  terrible  pace.  It  had  reached  the  Johns- 
town stone  bridge,  over  the  Conemaugh  River,  which 
withstood  nobly  the  shock  and  pressure  of  the  awful 
weight  of  water.  Firm  as  a  rock  it  stood,  holdirlg  back 
the  churning,  crushing  mass  of  wreckage.  For  two 
long  hours  the  flood  raged  and  beat  against  the  bridge, 
striving  to  push  it  from  its  foundations,  and  continue 
on  its  way  down  the  valley  to  complete  its  deadly  work. 
But  the  stone  bridge,  majestic  in  its  strength,  resisted 
the  attack,  and  soon  the  swollen  river  subsided  and 
resumed  its  normal  condition,  but  not  until  it  had  taken 
its  awful  toll  of  eight  thousand  human  lives  and  prop- 
erty valued  at  many  millions  of  dollars. 

Presently,  in  some  mysterious  way,  the  jam  at  the 
bridge  caught  fire.  The  dazed  survivors  of  the  awful 
flood,   already  nearly  overwhelmed  by  rush  of  the 

—392— 


THE  FLOOD 


destructive  waters,  further  suffered  in  the  sight  of  the 
flames  that  began  to  lick  at  the  wreckage.  In  that  mass 
behind  the  bridge  were  many  that  were  dear  to  them : 
mothers,  fathers,  brothers,  and  sisters.  As  the  flames 
eagerly  leaped  from  point  to  point,  agonized  cries  rent 
the  night,  and  despairing  prayers  were  offered  to  God 
in  Heaven. 

Down  in  that  cauldron  of  burning  wreckage,  with 
the  host  of  other  dead,  lay  the  body  of  a  hero  of  the 
truest  mould,  the  horseman  who  had  dashed  ahead  of 
the  raging  torrent,  crying  out  his  warnings  to  the  peo- 
ple of  the  Conemaugh  valley,  saving  thousands  of  lives, 
and  who,  even  when  the  flood  threatened  to  overtake 
him,  still  kept  on  his  errand  of  mercy  until,  just  as  he 
was  turning  to  cross  the  stone  bridge  to  safety,  the 
enraged  flood  caught  him  and  his  gallant  horse  and 
hurled  them  into  the  chaos  together. 

The  man  perished,  but  his  memory  will  live  forever 
in  the  memory  of  the  people  of  western  Pennsylvania, 
and  the  hearts  of  the  survivors  will  thrill  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  name  of  the  man  who  sacrificed  his  life  to 
save  theirs — the  heroic  horseman  of  the  Johnstown 
flood. — Daniel  Perriton. 


"To  a  man  is  given  but  once  to  die, 
Thougti  the  flood  breali  forth  he  will  raise  his  cry 

For  the  thousands  there  in  the  town. 
At  least,  some  child  may  be  saved  by  his  voice, 
Some  lover  may  still  in  the  sun  rejoice. 
Some  man  that  has  fled,  when  he  wins  his  breath, 
Shall  bless  the  rider  who  rode  thro'  death. 
For  his  fellows'  life  gave  his  own. 

"And  the  man  who  saw  the  end  of  the  race, 
Saw  a  darli,  dead  horse,  and  a  pale  dead  face, 
Did  they  hear  Heaven's  great  'Well  done'?" 

—393— 


THE   TALE    OF    THE    SCOUT'S    SISTER 
WHO   WAS   HELD   CAPTIVE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  scout's  sister 
whose  bravery  on  the  American  frontier,  before  great 
cities  had  arisen  in  the   IVliddle  West,  saved  the  friends  of 
her  brother  and   rescued   herself  fronn  an    Indian  tribe  where  she 
had   been   held   captive  ten   years.     It   is   a  tale   of  woman's  fortitude. 

IT  WAS  in  the  fall  of  1790.    General  Wayne's 
command  was  guarding  the  valley  of  the  Ohio. 
There  were  signs  of  unrest  among  the  Indians  of 
the   great   dominion  that   the   new  nation  was 
arousing  from  its  long  slumbers. 

"I  think,"  said  the  general  to  two  of  his  men, 
McLellan  and  White,  'Hhat  you  had  better  keep  a 
scouting  party  on  the  outposts.  I  feel  as  if  there  was 
going  to  be  trouble." 

The  scouts,  with  several  others,  started  out  into 
the  wilderness  and  made  their  way  to  the  top  of  Mount 
Pleasant,  where  they  had  a  clear  lookout  into  the  valley 
along  the  Hocking  Eiver  and  the  neighboring  plains. 

They  stored  carefully  away  the  rations  they  had 
brought,  for  they  expected  to  be  stationed  there  many 
days. 

Their  post  was  rather  inaccessible,  being  reached 
only  by  the  way  of  a  thickly  wooded,  narrow  path. 
Twelve  feet  distant,  across  a  deep  crevasse,  was  another 
ridge,  quite  as  high  as  Mount  Pleasant.  An  Indian 
skilled  in  the  art,  could  easily  leap  the  distance,  but  sure 

—394— 


THE  SCOUT'S  SISTER 


death  awaited  the  one  who  missed  his  footing  in  making 
the  leap.  Feeling  quite  secure  in  their  lofty  hiding- 
place,  the  scouts  kept  a  constant  outlook  for  the  savages. 

At  last,  in  the  distance,  the  Indians  could  be  seen 
approaching.  They  camped  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
precipice,  unconscious  that  above  them  were  two  of 
their  hated  enemies,  who  were  listening  to  their  boasts 
of  the  day's  depredations  and  murders,  as  they  gath- 
ered about  their  camp-fires. 

The  scouts  tarried  here  many  days,  their  ears  and 
eyes  constantly  alert  for  the  dangers  that  surrounded 
them.  They  found  caves  and  thickets  in  which  they 
hid  when  the  Indians  made  their  way  up  the  mountain 
side.  The  food  lasted  well,  and  the  water  which  they 
found  for  their  use  was  from  the  little  basins  on  the 
hilltop ;  but  a  time  came  when  no  rain  had  fallen  for 
many  days,  and  the  miniature  reservoirs  were  drying 
up.  Half  way  down  the  mountain-side  was  a  spring; 
but  in  descending  to  that  spring,  they  were  in  danger  of 
revealing  their  presence.  To  do  that,  they  were  sure 
was  certain  death.  The  Indians,  constantly  on  the 
move,  threaded  their  way  in  and  out  of  the  woods  on 
the  hillside,  like  so  many  serpents. 

The  need  of  water  was  at  length  so  great  that  they 
felt  they  must  make  the  attempt  to  reach  the  spring. 
McLellan  slipped  down  to  the  spot  and  returned  with- 
out being  detected.  Soon  the  supply  that  he  brought 
was  exhausted  and  then  Wliite  volunteered  to  go.  He 
reached  the  spring  in  safety,  and  was  about  to  make  the 
ascent  when,  to  his  terror,  he  detected  a  slight  move- 
ment in  a  nearby  thicket. 

Instantly  two  squaws  came  plainly  to  view.  The 
older  woman  gave  a  yelp,  which  the  scout  knew  was  an 
alarm.  He  threw  down  the  canteens  that  he  might  be 
unencumbered. 

—395— 


HERO  TALES 


He  thought  quickly :  ' '  The  only  way  of  escape  is  to 
hush  those  women  forever." 

His  only  weapon  was  a  rifle  and  a  report  from  that 
would  immediately  put  the  red-men  on  his  track. 
White  was  strong  and  muscular  from  his  life  on  the 
frontier. 

Looking  htirriedly  about  him,  he  grasped  the  squaws 
by  the  arms  and  dragged  them  to  the  spring,  where  he 
succeeded  in  getting  them  into  the  water.  One  of  them 
was  soon  drowned,  but  the  younger  one  resisted  his 
efforts  more  strenuously  than  the  other. 

' '  Oh,  sir, ' '  she  cried,  "  I  am  a  white  woman.  Don't, 
don't!" 

White  scanned  her  face. 

**For  my  sake,"  she  begged.  ''Take  me  to  the 
settlements  with  you!" 

''I  am  not  going  to  the  settlements,"  he  said.  "I 
am  a  scout.     I  am  stationed  here  in  the  mountains." 

' '  Let  me  go  with  you  there,  then, ' '  she  implored  in 
tears. 

White  saw  the  look  of  honesty  in  her  sad  face  and 
saved  her.  They  climbed  to  the  spot  where  McLellan 
was  waiting  anxiously.  They  had  nearly  reached  the 
summit  when  the  savage  cries  of  a  hundred  enraged 
Indians  floated  to  their  ears. 

' '  You  have  done  this, ' '  exclaimed  McLellan.  ' '  Now 
you  must  save  us ! " 

''Go  back  to  the  Indians  and  tell  them  you  made 
your  escape  from  the  white  men  I "  he  ordered.  ' '  There 
is  no  chance  for  you  here." 

"I  have  lived  with  them  ten  years,"  said  the  girl 
impatiently.  "They  took  my  father's  life,  and  mother 
and  all  my  brothers  and  sisters,  except  one,  who  was 
called  Eli.  He  escaped  and  they  took  me  captive.  I 
will  not  go  back  to  them!     I  hate  them!" 

—396— 


THE  SCOUT'S  SISTER 


McLellan  was  impressed  with  the  name  of  the 
brother  who  escaped.  He  seemed  to  recollect  some  one 
of  that  name.  He  questioned  her  more  closely  and 
found  that  her  brother  was  Eli  Washburne,  who  was 
one  of  General  Wayne's  scouts  in  the  same  garrison. 

*'Let  me  stay,"  she  pleaded,  "I  can  shoot,  and 
will  help  you — look — look,  there  they  come  now." 

There  were  only  two  ways  of  approach;  one  from 
the  wooded  trail  and  the  other  the  leap  across  the 
crevasse.  One  after  another  the  red-men  appeared  in 
the  open,  ready  for  an  attack,  and  just  as  rapidly  a 
sharp  report  from  the  white  men's  rifles  sent  them  life- 
less into  the  chasms  below. 

The  savages  were  now  rapidly  approaching  from 
both  sides.  White  stood  guard  at  the  wooded  path. 
McLellan  raised  his  rifle  to  the  bold  warrior  who  was 
about  to  leap  the  chasm. 

Suddenly,  McLellan 's  face  turned  pale.  The  old 
flint-lock  had  failed  him.  As  he  pulled  the  trigger  of 
his  gun,  the  barrel  was  silent,  but  to  his  amazement,  the 
Indian  at  whom  he  was  aiming  threw  up  his  hands  and 
fell  headlong  into  the  gulf  below.  Thinking  that  White 
had  sent  the  fatal  shot,  he  turned  to  locate  his  partner, 
when  there  was  another  sharp  report  from  the  same 
direction.  McLellan  looked  in  time  to  see  another  red- 
man  fall  into  the  depths.  Terrified  at  the  fate  of  their 
leaders,  the  savages,  with  a  howl  of  despair,  slunk  away 
into  the  woods.  Night  was  approaching  and  the  scouts 
could  not  decide  what  their  next  move  should  be,  know- 
ing that  they  were  closely  guarded. 

Strangely,  too,  the  girl  had  disappeared. 

''She  was  a  spy,"  exclaimed  McLellan. 

At  night-fall  a  soft  rustle  of  the  leaves  startled 
them.  Instantly  their  guns  were  leveled.  The  white 
girl  stood  before  them. 

—397— 


HERO  TALES 


^'Halt,"  cried  McLellan.  "Turn  back  to  the  red- 
skins!" 

"If  I  go  back  they  will  kill  me,"  she  answered  in 
surprise.     "Will  you  not  receive  me?" 

"You  simply  come  from  them  to  engage  our  atten- 
tion while  they  steal  upon  us.  Go  back,  for  I  do  not 
want  to  kill  Eli  AYashburne's  sister." 

"Trust  me,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "I  will  not  betray 
you.  It  was  I  who  shot  the  two  Indians  over  there." 
She  pointed  to  the  precipice. 

The  sincerity  of  her  words  and  tones  impressed 
them,  and  they  consented  to  keep  her.  Hope  came 
once  more  into  her  face — the  first  ray  of  hope  that  she 
had  entertained  for  ten  long  years.  Silently  she  laid 
plans  whereby  the  three  could  get  safely  back  to  the 
settlements.  At  length,  they  fell  into  a  quiet  conver- 
sation. They  led  her  to  talk  of  herself,  and  modestly 
she  told  of  her  part  in  the  fight — how,  when  the  first 
Indian  appeared  in  the  open  and  a  shot  from  Mc- 
Lellan's  gun  sent  him  lifeless  many  feet  down  the 
mountain-side,  she  stole  cautiously  away  to  his  body 
and  arming  herself  with  the  weapons  he  could  no  longer 
use,  she  made  her  way  back  to  the  ridge  where  the 
scouts  were  fighting  desperately  for  their  lives.  As 
she  passed  along,  she  heard  the  warriors  planning 
another  way  of  attack,  and  the  girl  went  quickly  to 
a  secluded  spot  known  only  to  herself.  There,  un- 
observed, she  had  a  good  view  of  the  entire  situation. 
She  waited  until  she  was  sure  her  assistance  was 
needed.  The  savages,  according  to  their  plans,  were 
now  approaching  from  the  opposite  peak.  Suddenly, 
like  a  deer,  a  warrior  dashed  to  the  edge  and  took  the 
leap.  She  aimed  carefully,  and  the  redskin  never 
reached  the  other  side,  but  fell  into  the  darkness  below. 
Exultantly  she  aimed  again,  for  there  on  the  very  brink 

—398—. 


THE  SCOUT'S  SISTER 


stood  "HigL.  Bear,"  the  leader  of  the  treacherous  band 
who  had  massacred  her  family.  Sweet  was  her  revenge, 
for  ''High  Bear"  met  the  fate  of  the  redskin  who  had 
preceded  him.  As  the  savages  retreated,  she  kept 
closely  to  her  hiding-place  and  only  dared  to  creep  out 
when  dusk  had  settled  over  the  land. 

''This,"  she  explained,  "has  been  the  cause  of  my 
disappearance. ' ' 

The  scouts  were  much  impressed  by  her  story,  and 
listened  to  the  scheme  which  she  had  formed  for  their 
escape.  .When  darkness  wrapped  the  little  village 
below  in  peace  and  quiet,  the  party  ate  the  scanty 
rations  that  were  left,  and  planned  to  descend  the  moun- 
tain under  cover  of  the  night.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  them  to  do  so  any  other  time  without  being  dis- 
covered. 

Miss  Washburne  was  to  be  their  guide,  for  in  the 
ten  years  that  she  had  roamed  through  these  plains  and 
mountains,  she  had  become  well  acquainted  with  "the 
lay  of  the  land."  Thoughtfully  she  looked  out  over 
the  valley.  Here  and  there  the  warm  camp-fires 
glowed  in  the  darkness.  Vivid  memories  of  the  scenes 
around  those  fires  made  her  sick  at  heart.  She  must 
escape  and  be  free  from  the  bondage  of  the  savages. 
Determination  fired  her  soul.  When  the  glow  had  died 
away  and  nothing  but  smoldering  embers  could  be  seen, 
she  knew  that  the  village  was  slumbering. 

' '  Follow  me, ' '  she  exclaimed. 

The  scouts  crept  along  the  trail.  All  the  cunning 
and  craft  that  she  had  learned  from  the  Indians  came 
to  her  aid.  At  a  point  near  the  base  of  the  mountain, 
she  commanded  them  to  wait  quietly  until  she  should 
return.     Soon  they  could  hear  her  talking  to  a  redskin. 

' '  I  have  just  got  two  sentinels  out  of  the  way, ' '  she 
exclaimed,  returning.    "Now  we  can  go  on.    We  must 

—399— 


HERO  TALES 


go  through  the  very  heart  of  the  village,  though,  for 
every  other  path  is  strictly  guarded.  If  we  are  very 
careful,  there  will  be  no  danger,  for  they  will  not  sus- 
pect me." 

As  they  passed  along  the  route  that  she  had  chosen, 
there  were  no  signs  of  life  until  the  ever-present  dogs 
dutifully  gave  the  alarm.  Drowsy  squaws,  awakened 
by  the  tumult,  thrust  their  heads  out  of  the  tepees  to 
see  what  had  caused  it.  Fearlessly,  the  girl  passed 
on,  speaking  a  hurried  word  to  the  animals,  and 
answering  the  questioners  in  their  own  tongue.  Well 
satisfied  that  the  intruder  was  not  a  stranger,  they 
retired  to  their  slumbers.  The  scouts,  who  had  fallen 
back  into  the  deep  shadows,  came  forth  reassured,  and 
again  took  up  their  march. 

At  last  they  passed  out  of  the  village  into  the  dense 
forest.  They  quickened  their  steps,  for  there  was  now 
no  danger  of  being  heard.  They  journeyed  in  this  way 
until  the  noon  of  the  next  day,  when  they  felt  sure  that 
pursuit  was  outdistanced. 

A  few  hours  later  the  two  missing  scouts,  who  had 
been  almost  given  up  for  dead,  entered  the  lines  of 
General  Wayne's  camp  with  the  strange  white  girl. 

The  soldiers  called  for  Eli  Washburne,  and  the 
sister,  who  had  been  snatched  from  savagery,  after  ten 
years  of  ** living  death,"  was  restored  to  her  brother. 

The  courage  of  the  girl  greatly  impressed  the 
gallant  General  Wayne. 

The  Indians,  enraged  at  the  loss  of  their  white 
captive,  and  knowing  that  the  "white  squaw"  would 
reveal  their  secrets  and  movements,  abandoned  their 
proposed  massacres. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  young  American  girl, 
after  years  of  suffering,  almost  beyond  human  endur- 
ance, saved  her  people  from  cruel  bloodshed. 

LOO— 


THE    TALE     OF    THE     FIREMEN    WHO 
SAVE   GREAT   CITIES 


This  is  tine  tale  of  a  fire  sergeant 
who  made  a  bridge  of  his  body,  across  which  the  imper- 
illed were  led  to  safety.    It  is  a  tale  of  men  who  spend  their 
lives   in  the   protection   of  their  fellowmen,  and   who,  as  you   read 
these  lines,  are  fighting  a  demon  worse  than  war,  the  ravages  of  fire. 

IN  GREAT  cities,  like  New  York,  the  rush  and  clang 
of  the  fire-engines  sends  the  chill  of  fear  through 
the  hearts  of  the  householder.     In  the  crowded 
districts,  where  thousands   of  people   are  often 
huddled  together  in  the  same  block  of  tenements,  there 
is  no  more  dreadful  sound  than  the  roar  and  rattle  of 
the  fire  department. 

At  about  three  o'clock  on  a  cold  Sunday  morning  in 
February,  1892,  the  fire  alarm  in  No.  3  Patrol  Station 
boomed  out  its  warning  to  the  watching  firemen.  Down 
the  brass  poles  they  slid  in  an  instant,  and  were  on  the 
engines  and  tenders  rolling  out  through  the  broad  door- 
ways in  less  than  two  minutes  from  the  first  alarm.  Up 
the  street  they  raced,  skilfully  avoiding  obstructions. 
The  firemen,  hastily  buttoning  their  coats  about  them 
and  settling  their  helmets  firmly  on  their  heads,  pre- 
pared to  fight  one  of  New  York 's  worst  enemies.  Ahead 
of  them  could  be  seen  the  ruddy  glow  of  fire,  and  soon 
they  were  in  front  of  the  blazing  Hotel  Royal. 

From  the  windows,  men  and  women  were  jumping 
and  falling  to  the  hard  pavement  below;  escape  by  the 

—401— 


HERO  TALES 


stairs  was  cut  off  by  the  fierce  flames,  and  choked  with 
smoke.  Finding  entrance  to  the  burning  hotel  impos- 
sible, the  firemen  dashed  to  an  adjoining  building,  led 
by  the  heroic  sergeant,  John  K.  Vaughan,  of  the  New 
York  Fire  Department.  Up  the  stairs  they  rushed. 
Through  a  window  they  could  see  many  people  in  the 
next  building,  the  blazing  hotel,  with  resignation  firm 
on  their  faces,  ready  to  give  up  and  be  dashed  to  the 
courtyard  below.  Vaughan  swung  out  of  the  window 
while  his  men  grasped  one  of  his  legs,  and  the  other 
was  braced  in  wires  on  the  side  of  the  building,  in- 
sulated, but  loaded  within  with  deadly  electricity. 
Fearlessly,  he  flung  himself  across  the  yawning  chasm 
to  the  window  across  the  way.  He  grasped  the  window- 
ledge,  and  three  men  and  a  woman  walked  across  his 
])ody — a  living  bridge — to  safety. 

Again,  these  brave  men  started  on  their  errand  of 
mercy.  Up  to  the  roof  of  the  building  they  ran.  The 
smoke  was  so  dense  they  could  hardly  see,  but  through 
it  they  heard  a  cry  for  help,  and  made  out  the  shape  of 
a  man  standing  on  the  window-sill  of  the  fifth  story  of 
the  burning  building,  overlooking  the  courtyard  of  the 
hotel.  The  yard  was  between  them,  and  the  man  was 
beyond  reach.  Bidding  his  men  follow  him,  Vaughan 
ran  down  the  stairs  and  around  into  the  next  street,  to 
the  roof  of  the  house  that  formed  an  angle  with  the 
hotel  wing.  There  stood  the  man  but  a  jump  away,  but 
a  jump  that  no  mortal  man  could  take  and  survive.  His 
hands  and  face  were  sooty  with  smoke,  and  no  one  could 
tell  whether  he  was  white  or  black.  Calm  and  motion- 
less, he  stood  in  the  window  against  the  background  of 
hissing,  roaring  flames.  He  saw  the  firemen  across  the 
courtyard. 

''It  is  no  use,"  he  said.  ''Don't  try.  You  can't 
doit." 

—402— 


THE  FIREMEN 


The  sergeant,  undaunted,  looked  about  him.  Not 
a  stick  or  a  piece  of  rope  was  in  sight. 

''I  can't  give  up,"  he  cried  to  his  comrades.  ''I  can't 
leave  that  man,  standing  there  so  brave  and  quiet. ' ' 

Calling  to  the  man  sharply,  he  said,  ' '  I  want  you  to 
do  exactly  as  I  tell  you  now.  Don't  grab  me,  but  let  me 
get  the  first  grab." 

"Don't  try,"  urged  the  man.  "You  cannot  save 
me.  I  will  stay  here  until  it  gets  too  hot,  and  then  I  will 
jump. ' ' 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  the  sergeant,  as  he  lay  at 
full  length  on  the  roof,  looking  over  at  the  apparently 
doomed  man.  "It  is  a  pretty  hard  yard  down  there. 
I  will  get  you  or  go  dead  myself." 

The  firemen  sat  on  the  daring  sergeant's  legs  to  hold 
him  as  he  swung  out  over  the  abyss,  almost  but  not  quite 
able  to  reach  the  imperilled  man.  The  man  on  the  ledge 
watched  the  efforts  of  the  brave  sergeant,  and  at  the 
command,  "Now  jump — quick!"  he  hurled  himself 
through  the  dense  smoke,  straight  at  the  swinging  fire- 
man. Their  fingers  clutched.  Could  the  sergeant 
keep  his  hold  on  the  swinging  figure  ?  The  strain  was 
terrific.  One  hand  loosened  its  hold  to  grasp  the  coat 
collar  of  the  man.     Then  it  held  firm. 

"Pull !"  cried  Vaughan,  and  the  firemen  tugged  and 
hauled  with  might  and  main,  yet  still  Vaughan 's  body 
did  not  move,  as  it  himg  over  the  edge  of  the  roof  with 
a  weight  of  two  hundred  and  three  pounds  suspended 
from  him  and  holding  him  down.  With  agony  in  their 
faces  and  cold  sweat  streaming  from  their  pores,  the 
men  pulled  and  tugged  on,  never  gaining  an  inch. 
,  Blood  burst  from  the  nostrils  of  the  fireman  as  he  clung 
\to  his  burden,  sixty  feet  above  the  merciless  pavement. 
'Flames  and  lurid  smoke  were  swirling  about  them, 
singeing  the  hair  and  clothing  of  the  swinging  bodies. 

—403— 


HERO  TALES 


Gathering  his  fast-waning  strength  in  one  last  tremen- 
dous effort,  the  heroic  sergeant  swung  the  hanging 
man  back  and  forth  like  a  pendulum;  wider  and  wider 
they  swung.  A  smothered  order  warned  the  firemen 
on  the  roof  of  their  chief's  intention.  Without  loosen- 
ing their  hold,  they  worked  their  way  to  the  edge  of  the 
roof,  and  watched  with  staring  eyes  the  human  pendu- 
lum, swinging  below.  Farther  and  farther  the  bodies 
swung  until,  with  a  mighty  heave,  the  brave  fireman 
had  swung  the  man  within  reach  of  the  waiting  men. 
They  seized  his  coat  and  dragged  him  onto  the  roof, 
and  then  they  lay  there,  breathless,  sightless,  their  faces 
turned  to  the  sky.  From  the  street  below  came  the 
tumult  of  the  fighting  firemen ;  the  spray  from  the  hose 
below  fell  upon  them,  froze,  and  covered  them  with  ice. 

The  sergeant  was  the  first  to  recover  his  self- 
possession.  Picking  up  the  still  unconscious  form  of 
the  man  whom  he  had  snatched  from  the  flames,  he 
carried  him  to  the  waiting  ambulance  in  the  street 
below. 

Despite  his  fearful  experience,  Sergeant  Vaughan 
summoned  his  remaining  strength,  and  back  into  the 
fire  he  went  to  fight  like  a  demon  until  it  was  overcome 
and  subdued.  When  the  recall  was  sounded,  the  brave 
man  was  found  unconscious — his  almost  superhuman 
labors  had  been  too  much  for  even  his  wonderful  con- 
stitution. It  was  late  in  the  Spring  before  he  was  able 
to  return  to  his  post  to  continue  his  noble  efforts  for  the 
saving  of  property  and  life. 


"Not  only  for  the  present, 
But  all  the  Bloody  Past, 
Oh,  strike  for  all  the  martyrs 
That  have  their  hour  at  last." 

—404— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  NURSE  WHO  BECAME 
THE  "ANGEL  OF  THE  BATTLEFIELD" 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  nurse 
who,  when  a  great  war  fell  upon  her  beloved  land,  gave 
up  her  occupation  and  went  to  the  battlefield  where  she  minis- 
tered tenderly  to  the  dying,  and  brought  a  woman's  love  to  the  suf- 
fering and  sunshine  and  kindness  to  a  great  world  of  anguish  and  gloom. 

IN  THE  little  town  of  Oxford,  in  Massachusetts,  in 
the  year  1821,  a  daughter  came  to  bless  the  home 
of  a  soldier  who  had  served  with  distinction 
throughout  the  American  Eevolution.  She  was 
a  frail  little  mite,  and  considerable  doubt  was  enter- 
tained as  to  her  chance  of  reaching  maturity.  She 
grew  through  the  days  of  childhood,  however,  and 
reached  womanhood,  a  delicate,  lovable  girl,  whose 
chief  attraction  was  a  sympathetic  nature  that  made 
her  anxious  to  devote  her  time  and  energy  in  behalf  of 
those  who  were  sick  or  injured.  Early  in  life,  she  be- 
came a  school  teacher,  but  gave  this  vocation  up  and 
went  to  work  in  a  shop,  only  to  return  to  teaching  after 
a  short  time. 

The  rumors  of  the  Civil  War  agitated  the  land. 
The  Union  troops,  marching  through  the  streets  of 
Baltimore,  had  been  set  upon  by  a  mob.  "Word  had 
been  received  in  "Washington  that  a  train-load  of 
wounded  would  soon  reach  the  city.  Among  those  who 
had  gathered  at  the  station  as  the  train  rolled  in  was 
the  delicate  little  school-mistress  from  New  England, 

—405— 


HERO  TALES 


who  had  made  a  failure  of  teaching  and  was  now  a  clerk 
in  the  patent  office. 

Touched  by  the  suffering  of  the  wounded  soldiers, 
the  young  woman  stepped  forward  and  volunteered  her 
services.  Nurses  at  this  time  were  scarce,  and  she  was 
put  to  work  at  once  in  caring  for  the  first  wounded  in 
the  war. 

The  Baltimore  victims  soon  recovered  or  were  sent 
to  their  homes,  but  by  the  time  the  services  of  the  volun- 
teer nurse  were  no  longer  required,  the  war  was  raging 
in  all  its  fury.  From  every  army  in  the  field  came  the 
cry  for  nurses.  Surgeons  there  were  in  plenty,  but 
hundreds  were  dying  who  might  have  been  saved  by 
proper  care.  From  the  front  came  the  urgent  plea: 
' '  Send  us  female  nurses.  Women  who  will  care  for  the 
wounded  as  only  women  can. ' ' 

The  appeal  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  little 
woman  from  New  England.  She  endeavored  to 
arouse  the  women  of  the  capital  to  the  urgency  of  the 
situation.  She  appealed  to  their  loyalty,  to  their 
patriotism,  to  their  sympathy,  to  their  love  for  those 
who  were  serving  at  the  front,  but  her  efforts  were  in 
vain.  The  women  regarded  with  horror  the  very 
thought  of  going  to  the  front,  and  of  witnessing  and 
still  more  of  participating  in  the  heartrending  scenes 
of  the  battlefields.     None  had  the  courage  to  volunteer. 

Finally,  despairing  of  securing  volunteers,  the  New 
England  woman  exclaimed :  ' '  I  will  go  alone ! ' '  She 
lacked  the  money,  stores,  and  other  requirements  that 
were  necessary  to  make  her  ministry  a  success,  but  this 
did  not  discourage  her,  and  she  immediately  set  about 
securing  them. 

"I  will  receive  stores  and  money  for  wounded  sol- 
diers at  the  front,"  she  proclaimed  everywhere.  "I 
will  undertake  to  distribute  them  in  person." 

—406— 


THE  NURSE 


The  newspaper  echoed  her  words,  and  so  generous 
were  the  responses  from  all  parts  of  the  country  that  it 
became  necessary  to  secure  a  warehouse  in  Washington 
where  the  stores  could  be  kept.  Then,  taking  such  sup- 
plies and  provisions  as  she  could,  she  set  out  for  the 
headquarters  of  the  Army  of  the  James. 

Thus  started,  she  continued  her  ministry  to  the  sick 
and  wounded  throughout  the  Civil  War.  From  field  to 
field  she  went,  through  the  long  and  bloody  campaigns, 
carrying  cheer  to  the  wounded  and  consolation  to  the 
dying. 

Wherever  she  appeared,  she  brought  comfort  to  the 
men  of  the  army,  until  her  name  was  known  and  rev- 
erenced in  every  camp  in  the  Union  army.  When  the 
brunt  of  the  conflict  fell  on  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
she  left  the  headquarters  of  the  Army  of  the  James  to 
go  to  the  post  where  she  was  most  needed.  With  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  she  went  through  many  hard  and 
bitter  campaigns. 

At  the  terrible  battle  of  Antietam,  she  performed  a 
wonderful  service,  ministering  to  thousands  of  wounded 
and  dying.  Hundreds  of  last  messages  to  the  loved 
ones  at  home  were  entrusted  to  her  by  dying  soldier 
boys,  and  they  were  unfailingly  delivered.  Utterly  dis- 
regarding her  personal  safety,  she  went  among  the 
wounded  on  the  field,  carrying  aid  to  those  who  most 
needed  it,  gentle  and  skillful  in  her  care  of  all  who  came 
under  her  hand,  and  apparently  tireless  in  her  efforts. 

On  other  fields,  she  served  as  heroically.  At  the 
battle  of  the  Wilderness,  she  was  present,  carrying  on 
her  work  of  mercy  on  the  very  firing  lines.  At  Fred- 
ericksburg, she  was  also  on  the  field  on  her  mission  of 
mercy.  At  Cedar  Mountain,  at  the  second  battle  of 
Bull  Run,  and  many  others,  she  was  a  ministering  angel 
to  tens  of  thousands.    Hundreds  of  thousands  of  dol- 

—407— 


HERO  TALES 


lars'  worth  of  clothing,  supplies,  and  medicines  that 
were  donated  to  her  noble  work,  were  distributed  among 
the  soldiers. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  the  frail  little  woman  re- 
turned to  her  home  for  rest.  But  her  rest  was  short. 
Soon  came  the  word  that  the  French  and  the  Prussians 
were  at  war,  and  that  nurses  were  needed  on  the  battle- 
fields. It  mattered  not  to  her  that  these  were  not  her 
countrymen — they  needed  help,  and  that  was  enough. 
She  went  abroad,  and  throughout  the  Franco-Prussian 
war  carried  on  a  work  of  mercy  that  won  her  the  love 
and  honor  of  the  whole  continent. 

Eeturning  home,  she  set  about  organizing  the  Amer- 
ican Eed  Cross,  and  for  years  its  great  work  for  suffer- 
ing humanity  grew  and  broadened,  under  the  untiring 
and  devoted  leadership  of  this  little  New  England 
school-mistress,  whom  the  Civil  War  veterans  still  love 
to  call  ''The  Soldiers'  Friend,"  and  ''The  Angel  of  the 
Battlefields" — the  noble  Clara  Barton. 


'Ah,  dearer  than  the  praise  that  stirs 

The  air  to-day,  our  love  is  hers! 

She  needs  no  guaranty  of  fame 

Whose  own  is  linlied  with  Freedom's  name. 

Long  ages  after  ours  shall  lieep 

Her  memory  living  while  we  sleep; 

The  waves  that  wash  our  gray  coast  lines. 

The  winds  that  rock  the  Southern  pines, 

Shall  sing  of  her;  the  unending  years 

Shall  tell  her  tale  in  modern  ears. 

And  when,  with  sins  and  follies  past, 

Are  numbered  color-hate  and  caste. 

White,  black,  and  red  shall  own  as  one 

The  noblest  work  by  woman  done." 


—408— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  FUGITIVE  BOY  IN 
THE  AMERICAN  WILDERNESS 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  runaway  lad 
whose  conscience  drove  him  from  home  and  friends 
into  the  hardships  and  wilds  of  a  savage  land  where  he  saved 
the  life  of  a  great  frontiersman.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  adventures  in  the 
American  wilderness  when  daring  men  were  pushing  civilization  forward. 

N"  a  little  village  in  Virginia,  there  was  a  lad 
living  quietly  with  his  parents  on  a  plantation. 
Like  all  the  boys  of  the  time,  he  was  skilled  in  the 
use  of  the  rifle  and  other  weapons  of  warfare,  for 
it  was  hardly  safe  to  wander  far  from  the  protection  of 
the  settlements  because  of  the  Indians  who  were  bitter 
enemies  to  the  white  men. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen,  this  boy  was  face  to  face  with 
his  first  great  difficulty.  He  loved  a  fair-haired  girl  in 
the  village.  This  was  not  all — one  of  his  boyhood  com- 
panions loved  her,  too.  Now,  had  the  young  lady  had 
an  honest  mind  of  her  own  the  suffering  of  many  hearts 
would  have  been  saved.  In  her  gay,  fickle  way,  she 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  rivalry  of  her  lovers,  without 
imderstanding  that  to  play  with  hearts  is  as  dangerous 
as  it  is  cruel. 

'* Settle  it  for  yourselves,"  she  said  coquettishly. 

This,  indeed,  was  a  challenge.  The  two  lads  met  in 
the  fields,  and,  after  a  few  words,  engaged  in  a  hot 
fight  with  their  fists.  One  of  them  fell  to  the  ground 
in  the  scrimmage.    His  companion  spoke  to  him.    There 

— 409-- 


HERO  TALES 


was  no  answer.  Seized  with  terror,  this  boy  secreted 
himself  in  the  woods.  An  awful  fear  dawned  upon 
him,  and  he  fled  farther  and  farther  into  the  mountains. 
His  heart  was  broken.  He  must  forever  remain  a 
hunted  fugitive  in  the  wilderness.  He  could  never 
again  look  into  the  faces  of  loved  ones  at  home.  Fate 
had  j)icked  him  for  her  own,  and  from  that  hour  he  was 
to  pay  the  severe  penalty  that  conscience  always  exacts. 

"Even  my  name  is  dangerous  to  me,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  must  not  disgrace  my  family.  My  name 
from  now  on  must  be  '  Simon  Butler. '  ' ' 

Simon  found  that  he  was  not  to  be  often  alone  in  his 
travels,  for  the  country  was  haunted  by  explorers  and 
adventurers.  He  at  last  selected  two  companions,  one 
of  them  named  Yager,  who  had  been  a  captive  among 
the  Indians  from  his  childhood.  Yager  had  faint 
memories  of  his  early  home,  and  to  the  boy  it  seemed  a 
veritable  paradise.  So  vivid  was  his  description  of 
this  '  *  Kantuck-ee ' '  land,  to  be  reached  by  means  of  the 
Ohio  River,  that  it  was  a  sort  of  Mecca  to  the  wander- 
ing boys,  and  they  decided  to  go  to  this  great,  new 
country. 

Yager  was  the  guide,  and  for  many  days  the  three 
canoed  down  the  river.  Finally  they  became  discour- 
aged. There  was  no  sign  of  the  longed-for  Utopia,  and 
believing  that  Yager  had  recollected  wrongly,  they 
returned  to  Virginia  and  settled  there  for  a  period  of 
two  years,  hunting  and  trapping. 

One  night,  without  the  slightest  warning,  their 
camp  was  attacked  by  the  Indians.  Simon  and  Yager 
made  their  escape,  but  the  man  who  was  with  them  gave 
up  his  life.  Thrust  once  more  into  the  wilderness,  they 
found  that  in  their  fight  they  had  left  all  their  worldly 
goods  behind  them.  They  traveled  along  at  random 
for  five  days,  feeding  on  roots  that  they  dug  on  their 


THE  FUGITIVE  BOY 


way.  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  day,  they  came  to  the  banks 
of  the  Ohio  Eiver.  They  met  trappers  who  gave  them 
some  food,  a  gun  and  ammunition. 

' '  I  know  what  I  will  do, ' '  thought  Simon.  ' '  I  will 
join  the  army  and  fight  for  my  country." 

He  made  his  way  alone  through  the  forest,  and  was 
soon  in  the  ranks  of  Governor  Dunmore's  army.  He 
felt  easier  when  under  the  protection  of  the  American 
flag,  which  he  loved.  His  faithfulness  to  duty  greatly 
impressed  his  commanding  officer.  Simon  was  given 
many  heroic  tasks.  As  a  spy,  he  risked  his  life  hourly 
and  performed  his  duty  with  wonderful  bravery. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  when  his  comrades  had 
broken  ranks,  Simon  began  to  long  again  for  the  ' '  land 
of  paradise,"  described  by  his  former  friend  Yager. 
He  found  two  others  to  go  with  him,  and,  after  a  long 
and  tedious  journey,  they  pitched  camp  where  Wash- 
ington, Kentucky,  now  stands.  Here  they  lived  quietly 
for  some  time,  but  finally  had  an  encounter  with  the  red- 
skins, and,  after  a  narrow  escape,  they  fled  from  the 
vicinity.  A  few  days  later  found  Simon  in  historic 
Boonesborough,  the  fort  on  the  very  brink  of  the 
American  frontier,  where  the  bravest  men  of  the  time 
were  pushing  back  the  Indians  and  pushing  forward  the 
flag  of  civilization. 

It  was  during  this  period  in  Boonesborough  that 
Simon  performed  one  of  his  most  heroic  feats.  Some 
white  men  at  work  in  the  field  were  attacked  by  savage 
foes,  and  Boone  and  Simon,  with  about  a  dozen  other 
men,  rushed  to  their  rescue.  The  "white  chief,"  as 
Boone  was  called,  was  overpowered  and  pinned  to  the 
ground  with  a  tomahawk  raised  over  his  head.  Boone 
thought  that  his  end  had  come  at  last.  Simon,  always 
alert,  took  in  the  situation.  Like  a  panther,  his  willowy, 
young  body  sprang  to  the  side  of  his  leader. 

—411— 


HERO  TALES 


The  Indian  fell  back  without  a  groan.  Taking  the 
body  of  Boone  in  his  strong,  young  arms,  Simon  car- 
ried it  safely  to  the  fort. 

Maddened  by  their  defeat,  the  Indians  became  more 
savage  than  ever.  Dearly  they  would  have  loved  to 
see  the  body  of  that  cool  and  courageous  young  com- 
mander, who  had  brought  dismay  to  their  hearts,  lying 
before  them,  stripped  of  life. 

Within  the  fort  a  pathetic  scene  was  enacted.  Boone 
was  a  man  of  great  action  and  few  words.  He  sent  for 
Simon.  The  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
If  Boone  had  never  spoken  a  word,  Simon  would  have 
understood  the  world  of  gratitude  in  his  heart,  but 
Boone  did  speak.  Impressed  with  the  bravery  of  the 
man  before  him,  he  quite  forgot  his  accustomed  taci- 
turnity, and  uttered  these  words,  unpolished,  but  full  of 
meaning : 

"Well,  Simon,  you  have  behaved  yourself  like  a 
man  to-day.     Indeed,  you  are  a  fine  fellow." 

The  youth  was  overcome  by  these  simple  sentences. 
Those  few  words  meant  more  to  him,  coming  from  this 
famous  pioneer,  than  all  the  flowery  and  flattering 
speeches  of  history. 

It  was  some  time  later  that  Boone  was  leading  an 
expedition  against  an  Indian  village.  Simon  and  some 
of  his  companions  set  out  to  secure  some  of  the  enemy's 
splendid  horses,  which  they  had  seen  grazing  on  the 
hillsides.  In  this  attempt  they  were  discovered,  and 
in  making  their  escape  they  took  different  directions 
for  safety.  Simon  started  for  the  river,  but  was  over- 
taken, and  was  obliged  to  surrender  to  the  foe.  All 
chance  of  escape  was  now  gone.  Poor  Simon  was 
lashed  securely  to  the  wildest  horse  that  the  savages 
could  find,  and  moccasins  were  placed  on  his  hands, 
rendering  him  absolutely  helpless. 

—412— 


THE  FUGITIVE  BOY 


"You  steal  Injun  lioss  again!  Injun  got  heap  good 
boss — you  steal  some?  Long-knife  like  Injun  hoss. 
Long-knife  on  Injun  hoss  now — but  he  no  steal." 

The  lad  was  taken  and  tied  to  a  stake.  Twigs  were 
placed  at  his  feet.  The  Indians  were  about  to  ignite 
them  when  there  suddenly  appeared  a  strange  charac- 
ter, known  as  Simon  Girty. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Simon  Butler,"  muttered  the  suffering  youth. 
Instantly  Girty  was  a  changed  man.  He  had  heard  of 
Simon's  heroic  rescue  of  Boone,  and  many  of  his  other 
daring  exploits.  He  approached  the  prisoner  and 
embraced  him  tenderly.  He  then  pleaded  with  the 
savages,  who  were  waiting  expectantly,  to  spare  this 
noted  warrior.  At  first  there  was  great  dissent,  but 
with  much  pleading  Girty  succeeded  in  saving  Simon 
from  the  stake. 

The  Indians  would  listen  to  no  more ;  they  still  held 
Simon  captive.  Impressed  by  the  manliness  and 
soldierly  bearing  of  the  youth,  his  rescuer  encouraged 
him  by  saying: 

"Don't  be  discouraged.  I  am  a  great  chief.  You 
are  to  go  to  Sandusky.  They  speak  of  burning  you 
there,  but  I  will  send  two  runners  there  to-morrow  to 
speak  good  of  you. ' ' 

True  to  his  word,  the  messengers  were  sent  out,  and 
Simon,  consumed  with  anxiety,  awaited  their  return. 
At  length  they  came,  and  evidently  the  great  chief  had 
overrated  his  power,  for  the  reports  were  unfavorable, 
and  the  next  day  Simon  was  marched  to  Sandusky. 

At  Sandusky,  a  powerful  and  unexpected  ally 
appeared  in  the  person  of  Captain  Drewyer,  a  French 
Canadian,  in  the  service  of  the  British  government  as 
their  Indian  agent.  He  told  the  Indians  that  this  man 
possessed  a  knowledge  of  the  settlements  in  Kentucky 

—413— 


HERO  TALES 


that  was  of  great  value  to  the  Commandant,  then  at 
Detroit.  By  dint  of  much  artful  persuasion,  the  Indians 
were  induced  to  loan  Simon  to  the  Detroit  party  until 
he  should  be  of  no  more  use  to  them.  Then  he  was  to 
be  returned  to  them  for  future  purposes.  Drewyer 
informed  Simon,  on  the  way  to  Detroit,  that  he  had  no 
desire  nor  intention  of  passing  him  back  to  these 
''brutal  animals,"  and  for  a  period  of  eight  months  the 
youth  was  relieved  from  his  intense  mental  suffering. 
He  dreamed  night  and  day  of  the  old  home  in  the  south- 
land. A  longing  to  go  back  filled  his  young  soul  with 
impatience,  and  he  could  hardly  endure  the  ties  that 
held  him  captive. 

He  planned  to  escape.  Two  other  Kentuckians 
were  also  in  bondage  there.  They  traded  with  the 
Indians  for  guns.  One  dark  night  they  managed  to 
slip  into  the  forest,  and  the  dangerous  journey  was 
begun.  For  one  month  they  traveled  under  cover  of 
the  night,  and  hid  in  the  caves  and  thickets  during  the 
day.  At  the  end  of  this  time,  exhausted  and  almost 
starved,  they  entered  the  strong  fortification  in  old 
Louisville,  Kentucky — where  the  youth,  who  had  saved 
Daniel  Boone,  was  joyfully  received. 

It  was  eleven  years  since  Simon  had  fled  in  despair 
from  his  old  home  in  Virginia. 

One  day,  while  he  was  again  at  the  front  in  the 
battle  against  savagery,  on  the  great  Kentucky  frontier, 
he  was  overjoyed  to  hear  a  companion  mention  his  old 
home.  He  made  inquiries  and  spoke  the  name  of  his 
sweetheart  of  boyhood  days. 

''She  is  still  living." 

Then  he  asked  for  the  lad  who  had  been  his  rival. 

"Yes,  he  is  still  living." 

Simon's  heart  leaped  with  emotion.  Had  all  these 
years  of  torture  been  only  a  dream  I 

—414— 


THE  FUGITIVE  BOY 


"I  will  go  home,"  lie  said,  overcome  with  joy.  *'I 
am  no  longer  Simon  Butler!  I  am  Simon  Kenton — 
that  is  the  name  of  my  family  and  now  it  is  mine. ' ' 

The  long  journey  overland,  with  its  frontier  hard- 
ships, was  only  a  pleasure  to  him.  Some  days  later, 
Simon  Kenton  entered  his  old  home  in  Virginia,  from 
which  he  had  been  driven  as  a  mere  boy  by  fear  and  his 
conscience.  His  heart-broken  mother  was  overcome 
with  emotion.  She  clasped  her  boy  in  her  arms  and 
wept  joyously.  Simon  Kenton  resolved  that  nothing 
on  earth  should  separate  them  again,  and  soon  he  took 
his  father  and  mother  back  to  Kentucky  with  him.  On 
the  way  his  aged  father  died,  and  was  buried  by  the 
mother  and  son  in  the  wilderness.  They  continued 
their  hard  journey  and  arrived  safely  on  the  spot  where 
he  had  opened  his  first  camp  in  Kentucky  many  years 
before,  and  there  he  founded  a  settlement.  To-day, 
Maysville  stands  on  that  site. 

Peace,  however,  was  not  yet  to  come  to  this  brave 
pioneer,  even  though  the  Indians  were  driven  back  and 
war  had  ceased  upon  the  border.  Land  troubles  arose^ 
and  poor  Kenton,  because  of  his  lack  of  knowledge 
regarding  legal  rights,  was  pitifully  persecuted  by  the 
speculators.  To  avoid  any  further  trouble,  he  moved 
his  family  over  to  the  wilds  of  Ohio.  There  he  lived  the 
life  of  a  farmer  until  he  reached  old  age,  when  mis- 
fortune again  overtook  him.  Claims  were  laid  on  the 
land  that  he  had  cultivated  for  so  many  years,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  make  it  all  over  to  others. 

One  day  on  his  way  to  the  legislature  at  Frankfort 
to  petition  for  his  rights,  he  stopped  at  the  home  of  b, 
friend.  Major  Galloway,  who,  seeing  evidence  of  his 
poverty,  did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  indignation  that 
the  country  should  allow  one  of  its  most  valiant  servants 
to  be  reduced  to  penury  in  this  manner. 

—415— 


HERO  TALES 


"Don't  say  that,  Galloway,  or  I  will  leave  your 
house  forever, .and  never  call  you  friend  again,"  said 
the  old  man,  assuming  all  of  his  old  soldierly  bearing. 

When  he  appeared  in  the  streets  of  Frankfort 
ridicule  met  him  on  every  side  because  his  garments 
hung  in  tatters  on  his  aged  frame.  When  it  became 
known,  however,  that  it  was  Simon  Kenton,  the  man 
who  saved  Daniel  Boone,  shame  flushed  the  faces  of  the 
scoffers,  and  the  old  hero  was  treated  with  much 
respect.  He  was  presented  with  a  new  outfit  and  was 
conducted  to  the  state  capitol,  where  many  honors  were 
showered  upon  him.  He  was  crowned  as  second  only 
to  the  heroic  Boone,  and,  as  he  retired,  he  said :  ' '  This 
has  been  the  proudest  day  of  my  life. ' ' 

The  venerable  hero  went  back  to  his  home ;  his  land 
had  been  returned  to  him,  and  there*he  lived  a  peaceful 
life  until  his  death,  which  occurred  in  his  eighty-first 
year.  His  body  lies  near  the  spot  where  fifty-eight 
years  before  he  had  endured  so  many  tortures  at  the 
hands  of  the  savages,  and  had  barely  escaped  death  at 
their  hands. 


''Close  his  eyes;  his  worlj  is  done! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 
Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 

"As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 
Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night. 
Sleep    forever   and    forever. 

"Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 
Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
What  to  him  are  all   our  wars, 
What    but   death    bemoekiug    folly? 

"Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eyes; 
Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made, 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by; 
God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him." 

—416— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  QUAKERESS  WHOSE 
LIPS  ALWAYS  SPOKE  THE  TRUTH 


This  Is  the  tale  of  a  Quaker  woman 
whose  sense  of  truth  and  justice  had  been  instilled  into 
her  through  many  generations,  but  whose  love  for  her  country 
led   her  to  reveal  the  secrets  which  she  had  overheard.    It  is  the 
tale  of  a  woman's  ingenuity  that  saved   an  army  and  saved  the  truth. 

IT  WAS  in  December,  in  the  year  1777.  The  British 
were  occupying  Philadelphia,  the  very  seat  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  In  that  city  lived 
a  Mrs.  Lydia  Darrah,  who,  with  her  husband,  was 
a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  These  good  folk 
are  supposed  to  possess  every  virtue  to  which  the 
human  frame  is  heir.  The  home  of  the  Darrahs  was 
directly  opposite  the  headquarters  of  the  British  com- 
mander. General  Howe.  It  was  probably  for  this 
reason,  and  equally  also  because  of  the  meekness  of  the 
inmates  of  this  home,  that  it  was  often  sought  by  the 
superior  officers  of  the  army  as  a  refuge  in  which  their 
most  secret  conferences  could  be  held  without  any  dan- 
ger of  intrusion. 

One  day  when  good  Mrs.  Darrah  swung  open  the 
door  in  response  to  a  knock,  one  of  the  British  com- 
manders entered.  He  requested  that  a  secluded  room 
above  might  be  prepared  for  his  use  immediately,  as  he 
wished  to  entertain  some  of  his  friends  in  secret  con- 
ference. 

''And  b«  sure,  Mrs.  Darrah,"  he  ordered,  "that 
—417— 


HERO  TALES 


your  family  are  all  in  bed  at  an  early  hour.  I  shall 
expect  you  to  attend  to  this  request.  When  my  guests 
are  ready  to  leave  the  house,  I,  myself,  will  give  you 
the  signal,  and  you  can  let  us  out. ' ' 

*'Yea,"  was  the  meek  little  woman's  response,  in 
her  quaint  Quaker  speech. 

The  haste  and  impatience  of  the  man's  commands 
made  an  unfavorable  impression  upon  Mrs.  Darrah's 
mind.  Her  conscience  rebuked  her  many  times  that 
clay  for  allowing  herself  to  give  the  affair  a  second 
thought,  but,  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  something  important  was  about  to  happen. 

Darkness  came.  Her  pious  family  was  safely  and 
soundly  asleep.  There  was  a  faint  knock  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Darrah  responded.  It  was  the  British  com- 
mander's guests.  She  conducted  them  to  their  apart- 
ment and  then  retired  to  her  own  room.  Then  she 
counselled  with  her  own  reason.  What  was  this  feel- 
ing of  coming  ill  that  possessed  her?  Some  especial 
danger  must  hover  over  her  beloved  country,  for  she 
was  a  loyal  American  patriot.  Surely  there  was 
fatality  in  the  night. 

At  last,  the  good  woman  could  resist  her  forebodings 
no  longer.  In  her  stocking-feet,  she  crept  to  the  door 
of  her  chamber — all  was  quiet.  Something  irresistible 
was  drawing  her  on.  She  reached  the  door  of  the 
officers'  room.  Breathlessly,  she  put  her  ear  to  the 
keyhole.  They  were  in  conversation.  She  could  catch 
but  few  of  the  words  at  first,  so  low  were  their  tones. 
Finally  one  of  the  officers  spoke  distinctly.  He  was 
reading  an  order  to  attack  the  American  army! 

' '  On  the  night  of , ' '  — the  very  next 

night. 

Mrs.  Darrah  waited  no  longer.  She  held  the  secret. 
As  she  stole  back  to  her  chamber,  her  heart  was  beating 

—418— 


THE  QUAKERESS 


so  hard  that  she  had  difficulty  in  calming  herself  before 
the  officer  was  seeking  her  to  let  him  out  of  the  house. 

In  order  to  regain  her  composure,  it  was  necessary 
for  her  to  let  him  rap  once — twice — three  times ;  then 
it  was  that  a  sleepy  voice  queried:  "What  dost  thee 
desire?" 

"We  are  ready  to  go,"  said  the  officer.  "Will  you 
come  and  open  the  door?" 

Mrs.  Darrah  let  him  wait  a  few  minutes  while  she 
pretended  to  dress  herself,  and,  when  the  party  were 
out  of  the  house,  she  extinguished  the  lights  and  fires 
and  returned  to  her  chamber. 

The  next  morning  she  hurried  through  her  house- 
hold duties.  She  had  a  mission  to  perform.  Inform- 
ing her  husband  only  that  she  was  going  to  the  mill  for 
flour,  she  hastened  to  the  British  headquarters  and 
received  a  written  permission  to  pass  through  the  lines. 

* '  The  good  Quaker  woman  1  Of  course ! ' '  exclaimed 
the  officer.     "Allow  her  to  pass  unmolested." 

Mrs.  Darrah  lost  no  time.  Never  had  she  traveled 
those  five  miles  so  swiftly  before.  Reaching  the  mill, 
she  left  her  order  for  flour,  but  her  errand  was  only 
just  begun.  A  secret  mission  was  upon  her  heart. 
Some  hours  later  she  was  entering  the  American  lines. 
Her  sweet  face  and  earnest  manner  impressed  the 
sentry,  and  she  was  directed  to  the  officer.  To  him  she 
imparted  her  secret.    He  thanked  her  profusely. 

"I  will  not  betray  you,  my  good  woman,"  he  said. 
"You  need  not  fear." 

With  her  heart  full  of  thankfulness,  Mrs.  Darrah 
hastened  back  to  the  mill,  and  from  there  pursued  her 
homeward  way  more  leisurely.  Soon,  from  her  win- 
dow, she  could  see  the  British  troops  departing.  Their 
purpose  she  knew  too  well.  The  suspense  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  endure,  but  she  did  not  retreat 

—419— 


HERO  TALES 


from  her  post  until  the  rumble  of  the  drums  amiounced 
the  return  of  the  troops  several  hours  afterward. 

At  a  later  hour  of  the  night,  there  was  a  knock  on 
her  door.  Her  heart  beat  rapidly,  but  she  composed 
herself,  for  she  realized  that  the  welfare  of  her  family 
depended  on  her  at  this  critical  moment.  She  lingered 
to  strike  a  light  and  then  made  her  way  to  the  door. 
There  stood  the  British  officer.  His  face  was  red  with 
anger. 

"Were  any  of  your  family  up,  madam,  on  the  night 
when  I  received  my  company  in  this  house?"  he 
demanded. 

"Nay!"  was  the  unhesitating  reply.  "The  dear 
ones  retired  at  eight  o'clock.     Hath  thee  trouble?" 

"It  is  very  strange,"  muttered  the  officer. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  added,  "I  know 
you  were  asleep,  for  I  knocked  three  times  before  you 
heard  me.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  we  were  betrayed,  for 
Greneral  Washington's  army  was  so  well  prepared  to 
receive  us  that  we  were  forced  to  retreat  without  an 
injury  to  the  enemy." 

The  officer  left  the  house. 

"I  wish  thee  well,"  said  Mrs.  Darrah,  as  he 
departed. 

The  story  of  Mrs.  Darrah  was  held  by  her  as  a  secret 
until  the  close  of  the  war.  Then  she  revealed  it  to  her 
friends,  and  it  was  verified  by  the  information  that 
passed  through  the  army,  that  it  was  a  strange  Quaker 
woman  who  had  saved  the  American  army  just  outside 
of  Philadelphia  on  that  cold  December  night  in  1777. 


"Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  hillside  grave, 
Beside  her  form  who  bore  thee! 
Long  may  the  land  thou  diedst  to  save 
Her  bannered  stars  vrave  o'er  thee!" 

20— 


THE    TALE    OF   THE    NAVAL    OFFICER 
WHO  BLEW  UP  HIS  SHIP 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  naval  officer 
who  voluntarily  sunk  his  ship,  expecting  to  lose  his 
own  life,  to  bring  victory  to  the  American  flag  under  which 
he  sailed.     It  is  a  tale  of  modern  heroism  in  war  not  surpassed 
by  the  legends  of  the  ancient  Greeks  nor  the  courage  of  the  Romans. 

THE  American  people  were   at  war  with  Old 
Spain,  once  the  ruler  of  the  seas  and  the  chief 
power  of  the  earth;  the  nation  that  gave  the 
world  its  greatest  discoverers;  that  sent  its 
heroes  into  the  uncharted  seas ;   and  that  first  dis- 
covered the  Pacific  Ocean.     The  powerful  old  nation 
that  gave  to  the  world  the  Western  Contiuent. 

The  glory  of  the  ancient  empire  was  fading  with  the 
onrush  of  the  civilization  that  it  had  awakened  from  its 
slumbers.  One  by  one  it  had  lost  its  possessions  and 
been  swept  from  the  continent  which  it  discovered,  un- 
til now  it  was  making  its  last  heroic  stand  against  the 
American  flag  down  in  the  waters  where  three  cen- 
turies ago  it  was  the  master  of  all  it  surveyed. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  third  of  June,  1898.  Two 
fleets  of  the  navies  of  the  Old  World  and  the  New 
World  lay  in  the  waters  off  the  coast  of  Cuba.  The 
ships  of  the  Old  Civilization  were  nestled  in  the  harbor 
of  Santiago,  awaiting  an  opportunity  to  make  a  dash 
for  the  open  sea  beyond.  The  warships  of  the  New 
Civilization  lay   just  off  the   coast  like  watch-dogs, 

—421— 


HERO  TALES 


guarding  the  entrance,   and  anxious   to   engage   the 
enemy  in  battle. 

On  board  the  American  flagship  Neiv  York,  stood 
its  officers  surveying  the  situation  in  the  harbor  and 
getting  a  line  on  the  fleet  of  the  enemy. 

"We  must  not  let  them  escape,"  said  one  of  the 
officers.    "They  must  be  held  there  in  the  harbor." 

There  was  only  one  particular  way  of  doing  it — and 
that  was  by  blockading  the  harbor. 

"I'll  do  it,"  decided  a  young  lieutenant.  "It 
will  doubtless  cost  me  my  life,  but  I  will  do  it  for  my 
country. ' ' 

The  young  navai  officer  laid  his  plans  before  his 
superior  officers  and  begged  permission  to  undertake 
the  daring  service.  The  officers  understood  that  he 
would  probably  never  again  stand  on  the  deck  of  a 
ship,  but  the  strategic  importance  of  this  movement 
was  such,  that  they  accepted  his  offer. 

It  was  after  midnight.  The  collier  Merrimac  lay 
near  the  flagship  of  the  American  fleet.  There  was  a 
stirring  of  the  crews  on  the  slumbering  battleships. 
The  word  had  been  passed  along  that  one  of  the  most 
hazardous  exploits  in  naval  warfare  was  to  take  place 
before  the  break  of  another  day.  Men  from  the  ships 
had  volunteered  their  lives  with  that  of  the  young 
lieutenant,  and  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to  accompany 
him  on  the  voyage  that  they  knew  meant  death. 

"Cast  off,"  came  the  order,  and  the  collier  Merri- 
mac, loaded  with  six  hundred  tons  of  coal  and  equipped 
with  the  most  dangerous  explosives  known  to  modern 
warfare,  slipped  out  under  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
bearing  less  than  a  dozen  men.  These  heroes  had  been 
under  a  fearful  strain  for  many  hours  and  they  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  hawser  that  separated  them  from 
their  expected  death,  was  severed. 

422 


THE  NAVAL  OFFICER 


There  were  no  cheers  froni  the  comrades  they  left 
behind,  bnt  in  the  security  of  the  big  battleships  every 
heart  was  with  them,  and  many  envied  them. 

Stealthily  the  collier  was  worked  along  in  the  dark- 
ness. The  slightest  sound  meant  the  awakening  of  the 
wicked  cannon  in  Fort  Morro  and  the  batteries  on  the 
shore.  It  was  an  hour  of  intense  quiet.  Even  the  si- 
lence of  the  night  was  like  death  itself. 

Who  can  ever  tell  the  feelings  of  these  intrepid 
men  ?  Were  they  thinking  of  their  dear  ones  far  away 
at  home  ? 

The  little  vessel  arrived  within  two  thousand  yards 
of  the  forts.  The  watchers  on  the  decks  of  the  Spanish 
fleet  were  astounded  by  the  vision. 

"Full  speed,"  rang  out  the  orders.  "Full  speed 
ahead !    Steady  a-starboard ! " 

The  astounding  impertinence  of  the  Merrimac 
thrilled  the  Spaniards  with  bewilderment. 

The  great  guns  belched  forth  their  deadly  con- 
tents. Amid  the  thunder  of  artillery  and  a  rain  of 
steel  and  bursting  shells,  the  boat  with  its  eight  brave 
heroes  held  on  its  way,  heedless  of  their  danger. 
Grim  old  Morro  on  the  right  growled  in  fury. 
It  was  a  moment  to  try  the  stoutest  heart.  Cannon 
but  a  few  hundred  feet  distant,  poured  out  their  flames. 
The  little  Merrimac,  stripped  of  every  gun,  sped  on 
into  the  horrible  storm  of  death. 

Beyond  Morro  could  be  seen  the  cove.  Only  a  few 
hundred  yards  more  and  their  duty  would  be  done !  A 
shell  directed  with  precision  struck  the  steering  gear. 
The  poor  little  Merrimac  shuddered.  The  momentum 
of  the  seven-thousand-ton-ship  carried  them  further 
on.  The  moment  of  destiny  had  come.  The  gallant 
commander  issued  the  fatal  order.  Murphy  from  his 
station  at  the  bow  dropped  the  anchor. 

—423^ 


HERO  TALES 


''Fire  torpedo  No.  1,"  came  the  command. 

There  was  a  muffled  report. 

"Fire  torpedo  No.  2." 

There  was  no  response. 

Then  followed  rapidly  the  orders  to  fire  the  remain- 
ing four  torpedoes.  There  was  but  one  dull  explosion 
in  answer. 

The  fire  of  the  enemy  had  destroyed  the  connections 
of  four  of  the  torpedoes.  The  little  injured  Merrimac 
was  floundering  with  two  breaches  in  her  hull.  The 
batteries  were  hurling  their  death-dealing  shells  at  the 
undaunted  crew  of  heroes.  Calm  and  determined,  they 
watched  the  tide  swing  the  boat  around  into  position. 

The  din  was  fearful.  The  batteries  on  Socapa  hill 
were  belching  forth  flames  and  deadly  missiles. 

The  Merrimac  swung  two-thirds  athwart  the  chan- 
nel. 

The  feat  was  accomplished,  the  most  intrepid  act  of 
heroism  in  American  naval  history. 

The  vessel  was  now  rapidly  sinking.  The  crew 
launched  and  clambered  into  the  small  catamaran,  a 
partially  submerged  life  raft,  which  they  had  brought 
on  the  Merrimac. 

S])anish  reconnoitering  boats  were  now  thick  about 
them,  looking  for  the  survivors.  After  an  hour's  sub- 
mersion, at  the  break  of  day,  a  launch  steamed  up  to  the 
wreck  of  the  Merrimac  with  all  curtains  drawn  and 
not  a  man  visible.  It  was  evident  that  the  heroes  cling- 
ing to  the  life-raft,  submerged  to  their  mouths,  had 
not  been  seen. 

"Aboard  the  launch!  Is  there  an  officer  on  board? 
An  American  officer  wishes  to  speak  to  him  with  a  view 
to  surrendering  himself  and  men  as  prisoners  of  war. ' ' 
The  words  came  as  if  from  the  grave.  They  were  from 
the  surviving  commander  of  the  sunken  vessel. 

—424-^ 


THE  NAVAL  OFFICER 


Immediately  a  file  of  soldiers  formed  on  the  deck 
from  below  with  gmis. 

''Load I  Ready!  Aim!"  came  the  order  from  a 
Spanish  officer. 

''The  miserable  cowards  are  going  to  shoot  us?" 
flashed  through  the  mind  of  the  half-drowned  lieu- 
tenant. 

The  great  Spanish  admiral,  Cervera,  strode  the 
deck.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  crew  of  the  Merrimac, 
begrimed  from  the  fine  coal  and  oil,  as  they  came  to  the 
surface  from  the  sunken  ship.  The  officer  looked  with 
astonishment.  A  wave  of  admiration  swept  over  the 
Spaniards  and  the  air  rang  with  a  spontaneous  cheer : 
"Valiente!"  Thus  are  bravedeeds  recognized  by 
brave  men. 

The  Merrimac  survivors  were  in  the  hands  of  Ad- 
miral Cervera  as  prisoners  of  war. 

The  Spaniards  were  so  deeply  impressed  with  this 
act  of  bravery  and  heroism  that  they  treated  the  pris- 
oners with  the  greatest  courtesy.  Admiral  Cervera 
promptly  sent  a  special  officer,  under  flag  of  truce,  to 
inform  Admiral  Sampson  of  their  safety.  The  pris- 
oners were  kept  confined  in  Morro  Castle  for  some  days, 
when  they  were  removed  to  a  place  of  greater  safety 
and  held  until  exchanged  on  the  seventh  of  July,  1898. 

On  the  return  of  the  heroes  of  the  Merrimac  to  the 
American  flagship  they  were  greeted  with  wildest  ex- 
ulation.  The  national  air,  "When  Johnny  comes 
marching  home,"  echoed  through  the  lines.  And  on 
their  return  to  their  native  land  the  American  people 
literally  rose  en  masse  in  homage  to  the  heroes. 

Such  is  the  tale  that  will  ever  be  known  in  naval 
history  as  the  heroism  of  Lieutenant  Richmond  Pear- 
son Hobson. 


-425- 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  WOMAN  "HERETIC" 
WHO  DIED  FOR  HER  CONSCIENCE 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  woman  heretic 
who  loved  truth  better  than  life,  and  liberty  to  speak 
the  truth  more  than  the  comfort  of  safety  and  honne,  whose 
martyrdom  bears  fruit  to-day  in  the  religious  freedom  of  a  country 
where  "all  may  worship  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  conscience." 

IN  THIS  day  of  religious  tolerance,  when  the  Ten 
Commandments  are  the  greatest  law  of  the  land, 
it  is  Hke  an  old  romance  to  hear  of  the  time,  when 
those  who  dared  to  differ  in  religious  convictions 
from  a  certain  fixed  creed,  were  publicly  whipped,  held 
fast  in  the  stocks,  and  branded  with  the  letter  ''H," 
meaning  heretic.  Others  were  haled  to  court  and  fined, 
and  so  rigid  was  the  law,  the  penalty  might  be :  "  Sold 
into  slavery  to  Virginia  or  Barbadoes." 

It  was  in  the  year  of  1657.  A  woman,  who  dared  to 
speak  the  word  of  truth  that  burned  in  her  soul,  was 
banished  from  Boston,  with  he:  husband  and  children, 
and  fled  to  Long  Island  to  escape  the  severe  penalty 
of  her  free  speech.  After  two  years  of  banishment,  she 
believed  that  it  was  her  duty  to  return,  for  the  purpose 
of  aiding  those,  who,  like  herself,  had  suffered  for  con- 
science's sake.  Upon  her  return  to  Boston,  she  was 
arrested  again,  and  sentenced  to  banishment  or  death. 
''Take  her  away,"  ordered  the  angered  magistrate. 
"Yea,  joyfully  shall  I  go,"  she  replied,  her  face 
alight  with  the  spirit  of  the  truth  aglow  within  her. 

—126— 


THE  WOMAN  "HERETIC" 


The  crowd  followed  her  to  Boston  Common,  shout- 
ing and  jeering.  Drummers  kept  close  at  her  heels, 
drowning  her  voice  with  their  steady  beats  when  she 
tried  to  answer  the  crowd. 

' '  Take  me  to  the  gallows, ' '  she  shouted.  ' '  I  'm  will- 
ing to  die  for  my  conscience." 

A  throng  of  people  hooted  in  derision  as  she  entered 
Boston  Common.  The  woman,  her  face  as  peaceful  as 
a  benediction,  faced  the  gallows.  Then,  gazing  upon 
the  jeering  crowd,  she  shouted : 

' '  This  is  to  me  the  hour  of  the  greatest-  joy  I  ever 
had  in  this  world !  No  tongue  can  utter,  and  no  heart 
can  understand,  the  sweet  refreshing  from  the  spirit  of 
the  Lord,  which  I  now  feel !" 

The  crowd  again  broke  into  taunts  and  ridicule, 
laughing  and  shouting.  The  woman's  clothes  were 
tied  about  her  feet.  The  gallows-rope  was  loosened, 
and  the  noose  placed  over  her  neck.  Her  face  was  as 
peaceful  as  that  of  a  child. 

She  had  known  the  love  of  a  husband,  and  the 
hallowed  rapture  of  motherhood,  but  this  strange  joy 
of  dying  for  the  truth,  of  giving  herself  a  martyr  to  the 
Lord,  surpassed  all  human  emotions. 

The  rope  was  about  to  fall.  The  crowd  was  for  a 
moment  still. 

"Stop!"  cried  a  voice. 

A  youth  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd. 

'^I  hold  in  my  hand  the  reprieve  of  the  Governor." 

The  pleading  of  her  son  had  softened  the  heart  of 
the  chief  magistrate. 

'^I  will  give  you  two  days  to  get  this  heretic  out  of 
the  country,"  he  had  said,  as  he  granted  the  reprieve. 

The  woman  was  again  hurried  through  the  jeering 
crowd,  and  in  a  few  hours  was  on  her  way  back  to  Long 
Island. 

—427— 


HERO  TALES 


But  her  conscience  refused  to  be  stilled. 

''I  must  not  submit  to  this  tyranny,"  she  cried. 
"The  voice  of  God  calls  me." 

Her  children  pleaded  with  her  to  remain  with  them 
on  Long  Island,  but  she  refused.  The  husband,  fearing 
the  results  of  this  journey,  hurried  a  dispatch  to  the 
Governor : 

' '  If  her  zeal  be  so  great  to  thus  adventure, ' '  it  read, 
'  *  oh,  let  your  pity  and  favor  surmount  it,  and  save  her 
life.  I  only  say  this :  Yourselves,  have  been,  and  are, 
or  may  be,  husbands  to  wives ;  so  am  I,  yea,  to  one  most 
dearly  beloved.  Oh,  do  not  deprive  me  of  her,  but  I 
pray  give  her  to  me  once  again.  Pity  me.  I  beg  it 
with  tears,  and  rest  your  humble  supplicant." 

Some  days  later  the  woman  again  stood  before  the 
Governor  charged  with  heresy. 

"Are  you  the  same  Mary  Dyer  that  was  here 
before?"  he  inquired. 

"I  am  the  same  Mary  Dyer  that  was  here  at  the  last 
General  Court,"  she  answered  calmly. 

"You  will  own  yourself  a  Quaker,  will  you  not?" 
asked  the  Governor. 

"I  own  myself  to  be  reproachfully  so  called,"  she 
answered. 

"You  are  sentenced  to  death,"  retorted  the  Gov- 
ernor in  anger. 

"This  is  no  more  than  thee  said  before,"  replied  the 
woman. 

"But  now,  madam,"  he  growled,  "it  is  to  be 
executed.  Therefore  prepare  yourself  to  die  at  nine 
o'clock  to-morrow." 

On  the  following  morning,  the  crowd  was  again 
gathered  on  the  Common.  The  woman  stood  with  the 
same  peace  on  her  face,  and  refused  the  prayers  of  the 
established  church. 

—428— 


THE  WOMAN  '* HERETIC" 


''Do  not  be  deluded  of  the  devil,"  counselled  the 
minister. 

''Nay,  man,"  she  replied,  "I  do  not  now  repent. 
There  is  nothing  to  repent  of,  for  I  have  seen  Paradise, 
and  have  witnessed  to  the  truth." 

The  crowd  jeered. 

"Yea,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  in  Paradise  several 
days,  and  it  is  joy  to  know  that  soon  I  shall  be  there 
forever." 

As  her  body  hung  on  the  gallows,  one  of  the  judges 
scoffingly  remarked: 

' '  She  did  hang  as  a  flag  for  others  to  take  example 
by." 

And  Mary  Dyer  did,  indeed,  hang  as  a  flag — the  flag 
of  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  of  liberty,  in  which  each  man 
may  worship  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  con- 
science, and  a  new  nation  in  which  its  ' '  Congress  shall 
make  no  law  prohibiting  the  free  exercise  thereof;  or 
bridling  the  freedom  of  speech,  or  the  press,  or  the 
right  of  the  people  to  assemble." 


**0  sense  of  right!    O  sense  of  right, 
Whate'er  my  lot  in  life  may  be, 
Thou  art  to  nie  God's  inner  light, 
And  these  tired  feet  must  follow  thee. 

"But,  though  alone,  and  grieved  at  heart, 
Bereft  of  human  brotherhood, 
I  trust  the  whole  and  not  the  part, 
And  know  that  Providence  is  good. 

"Self-sacrifice  is  never  lost, 

But  bears  the  seed  of  its  reward; 
They  who  for  others  leave  the  most, 
For  others  gain  the  most  from  God." 


—429— 


THE    TALE    OF   THE   BRIDGE   BUILDER 
WHO  UNITED  TWO  GREAT  CITIES 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  man's  handiwork 
and  the  magic  of  his  skill,  in  which  a  great  highway 
is  thrown  across  a  river  and  two  of  the  largest  cities  of  Amer- 
ican civilization  are   brought  together  into  a  huge  metropolis  of 
trade  and  commerce.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  ingenuity  and  heroism  of  peace. 

IT  WAS  in  the  days  when  the  great  metropolis  of 
New  York  was  witnessing  a  great  engineering 
feat,  in  which  a  huge  bridge  5,989  feet  long  was  to 
span  the  East  River,  and  form  a  massive  high- 
way over  which  more  than  a  half  million  people  were  to 
pass  each  day  between  the  cities  of  New  York  and 
Brooklyn.  This  bridge,  which  was  to  cost  more  than 
$13,000,000,  had  been  planned  by  one  John  Roebling,  a 
civil  engineer,  whose  triumphs  over  space  and  river- 
beds had  amazed  the  American  people.  A  few  years 
before,  he  had  thrown  a  long  span  across  the  Niagara 
River,  the  possibility  of  which  had  been  foretold  by 
eminent  engineers  throughout  the  world.  A  few  years 
later,  he  surpassed  even  this  achievement,  and  spanned 
the  Ohio  River  at  Cincinnati  with  a  suspension-bridge, 
a  feat  which  was  accounted  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  the  times. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1869.  The  foundations 
were  being  laid  for  the  huge  stone  towers  which  were 
to  rise  from  the  surface  of  the  East  River. 

"Roebling   is    dead,"   was    the   news   that    swept 
—430— 


THE  BRIDGE  BUILDER 


through  New  York  and  across  the  continent.  The 
great  engineer,  whose  mind  had  conceived  this  wonder- 
ful union  of  cities,  lay  lifeless,  a  sacrifice  to  his  own 
greatness.  While  personally  engaged  in  laying  out 
the  towers  for  the  bridge,  he  had  received  an  accidental 
injury,  which  had  resulted  in  his  death  from  tetanus. 
But  behind  him  he  had  left  in  the  minds  of  other  men 
the  secret  details  of  the  marvelous  structure  which  was 
now  to  be  his  monument. 

The  great,  equal  towers  lifted  their  massive  height 
to  268  feet.  Upon  them  now  was  to  be  swung  the 
mighty  highway  that  was  to  unite  the  metropolis  of  the 
western  world  with  its  sister  city.  The  moment  had 
come  when  the  first  thread  that  was  to  form  that  mighty 
bond  must  be  thrown  from  the  towers.  Seven  years 
had  passed  since  the  foundations  had  been  laid,  and 
the  genius  who  had  inspired  it  had  given  his  life  as  its 
first  sacrifice. 

The  month  of  August,  1876,  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
Tugs  ploughed  through  the  river,  dragging  behind  them 
two  cables  of  about  three-quarters  of  an  inch  in  thick- 
ness, and  which  stretched  from  shore  to  shore  as  they 
lay  on  the  river-bed.  The  little  hoisting  engines  began 
to  puff,  and  the  two  cables  were  drawn  from  the  water 
and  lifted  into  space,  until  they  reached  the  tops  of  the 
towers  and  rested  upon  them. 

The  great  span  was  just  begun.  The  first  call  had 
come  for  some  one  to  risk  his  life  in  order  to  test  the 
strength  of  the  cable.  Some  one  must  swing  across  the 
expanse  of  a  mile,  suspended  to  the  wire  thread,  nearly 
three  hundred  feet  above  the  tossing  waters  of  the 
river. 

''I'll  do  it,"  said  a  man,  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
solidly  built,  and  his  hair  gray  with  years  of  perilous 
duty.     He  was  a  master-mechanic,  whose  skill  and 

—431— 


HERO  TALES 


courage  had  solved  a  thousand  apparently  insurmount- 
able difficulties,  during  the  years  since  the  first  founda- 
tion-stone of  the  bridge  had  been  laid. 

A  few  moments  later,  the  figure  of  a  man  shot  out 
from  the  bank  of  the  river,  suspended  in  mid-air  on  a 
board  seat  that  hung  from  the  cable  under  the  power  of 
the  hoisting  engine.  The  master-mechanic's  fellow- 
workmen  attempted  to  lash  him  to  his  seat,  but  he  waved 
them  aside.  The  wire  thread  slipped  from  its  anchor- 
age on  the  Brooklyn  banks  of  the  river  and  the  swinging 
seat  rose  steadily  higher  and  higher  toward  the  tower. 
The  incline  was  steep  and  the  weight  of  its  human  pas- 
senger caused  it  to  sag.  As  the  master-mechanic  neared 
the  top,  the  swaying  wire  dashed  him  toward  the  huge 
masonry,  but,  by  his  alertness  and  experience,  he  was 
able  to  protect  himself  from  the  grave  danger  of  strik- 
ing it. 

"Hurrah!  Hurrah!  he  has  reached  the  tower!" 
shouted  the  workmen  from  the  river-bank.  The  cheer 
was  taken  up  by  the  thousands  who  had  gathered  to 
watch  the  daring  spectacle  of  a  man  passing  over  East 
River  in  mid-air,  suspended  from  a  single  wire. 

The  first  stage  of  the  perilous  journey  had  been 
reached.  The  master-mechanic  stood  on  the  top  of 
one  of  the  great  towers  that  rose  from  the  waters.  He 
gazed  across  the  river.  There,  sixteen  hundred  feet 
away,  another  huge  tower,  of  an  equal  height,  had  been 
reared  near  the  New  York  shore. 

Waving  his  hand  to  the  engineers,  the  master- 
mechanic  signaled.  The  little  engine  puffed.  The 
wire  again  slipped  from  the  loop  at  its  anchorage  and 
as  the  master-mechanic  swung  out  over  the  channel  of 
the  river,  a  hurricane  of  cheers  arose  from  the  crowd. 
The  steamships  in  the  river  beneath  him  opened  their 
throttles,  and  a  mighty  din  and  clatter  saluted  the 

—432— 


THE  BRIDGE  BUILDER 


courage  of  the  man  who  was  inspiring  his  onlookers 
with  his  heroic  fidelity  to  duty.  As  he  looked  down 
from  his  swinging  seat,  the  piers  and  ferries  and  house- 
tops below  were  black  with  people. 

To  those  who  were  anxiously  waiting  on  the  Brook- 
lyn shores,  it  seemed  that  the  dangling  speck  in  mid- 
air hardly  moved,  so  slow  was  its  progress.  The  mo- 
ments passed;  nearer  and  nearer  it  came  to  the  New 
York  tower. 

"He  is  there!"  shouted  the  crowd  and  the  tumult 
below  again  reached  his  ears. 

On  the  tower  stood  the  master-mechanic,  waving  a 
flag  at  the  crowd  below.  Cheer  after  cheer  echoed 
across  the  river. 

Seven  years  later,  the  great  Brooklyn  Bridge  was 
completed.  Two  of  the  greatest  cities  of  western  civil- 
ization had  been  united,  and  since  that  day  hundreds  of 
millions  of  people  have  passed  over  the  huge  highway 
in  absolute  safety.  Thousands  of  trains,  crowded  with 
passengers,  traverse  its  roadways  every  day  between 
the  great  centers  of  population.  Such  is  its  endless 
stream  of  humanity  at  the  beginning  and  close  of  each 
day's  work,  that  it  has  become  one  of  the  great  wonder- 
sights  of  the  world ;  and  at  a  single  moment,  it  is  said, 
there  are  often  more  than  twenty-thousand  people 
bound  on  the  pilgrimage  across  this  marvelous  highway 
suspended  over  the  river. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  astounding  modern  artisan- 
ship  of  man,  and  its  hero  was  Edwin  Farrington,  the 
master-mechanic,  who  was  the  first  man  to  pass  over 
the  East  River  on  the  first  cable  of  the  great  Brooklyn 
Bridge. 


-433— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE   PILGRIM   SOLDIER 
WHO  CHALLENGED  BARBARISM 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  soldier  of  the  Mayflower 
who  defied  the  challenge  of  the  savage  land  and  drove  back 
barbarism  before  the  courageous  onslaught  of  civilization,  begin- 
ning the  struggle  which  passed  persistently  down  the  centuries  until 
to-day  a  continent  is  swept  from  ocean  to  ocean  by  the  hand  of  progress. 

THE  little  settlement  lay  on  the  bleak,  rugged 
coast  of  New  England.  Smoke  curled  from 
the  log  houses  that  stood  on  the  shores  at  the 
edge  of  the  forests  that  were  yet  imtrod  by 
the  foot  of  white  men.  Along  the  path  passed  a  stal- 
wart man,  wearing  knee  breeches ;  a  broad-brimmed  hat 
shaded  his  face,  and  in  his  hands  he  carried  a  musket. 
It  was  here,  to  this  strange  new  wilderness,  that  he 
had  come  with  these  brave  pioneers  that  they  might 
worship  God  in  their  own  way.  The  religious  persecu- 
tion of  the  Old  World  had  been  more  than  conscience 
could  bear,  and  in  the  wilds  of  the  newly  discovered 
continent,  where  the  only  law  was  the  law  of  nature, 
they  had  come  to  seek  refuge,  determined  to  face  its 
hardships  and  dangers,  trusting  to  God  to  shape  their 
destinies.  The  character  of  the  settlers  was  well  suited 
to  the  rugged,  storm-beaten  coast  on  which  they  had 
landed;  sober-minded,  earnest  men,  of  deep  religious 
principles. 

The  blinding  snows  and  bitter  gales  from  the  sea 
beat  upon  their  crude  log  houses.     Disease  overtook 

—434-- 


THE  PILGRIM  SOLDIER 


them.  At  one  time  all  but  seven  were  prostrated  by 
sickness,  and  before  the  winter  ended  half  the  settle- 
ment of  about  one  hundred  men  and  women  had  died. 
Through  the  cold  months  of  blizzard,  for  the  winters 
were  then  as  wild  as  the  bleak  land  that  they  swept,  the 
brave  settlers  struggled  to  subsist  on  the  scanty  har- 
vests, but,  despite  their  terrible  suffering,  not  one 
would  return  to  Europe,  when  one  day  the  opportunity 
came  to  them. 

*'We  will  live  or  die  in  the  faith  of  God,"  they  said, 
''according  to  His  will." 

In  the  forests  roamed  the  wild  beasts  and  savages. 
Occasionally  an  Indian  was  seen  skulking  along  the 
trail  that  entered  the  vast  dominion  of  primeval  nature. 
Though  the  Indians  had  not  disturbed  them,  a  company 
of  militia  had  been  formed  for  their  protection. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  spring.  The  maids  and 
matrons  were  busy  with  their  household  duties,  and  the 
men  were  in  the  fields  turning  the  sod  for  the  sowing 
of  the  crops,  whose  bounties  were  to  save  them  from 
starvation. 

Suddenly,  a  strange  cry  rang  through  the  village. 

' '  Welcome !    "Welcome !    Welcome ! ' ' 

There,  in  the  village  street,  before  the  cabin  doors, 
stood  a  bronze-limbed  messenger  of  the  savage  tribes  of 
the  forest,  crying  in  broken  English  the  greeting  of 
the  white  man. 

The  women  were  in  consternation.  Men  hurried 
in  from  the  nearby  fields  carrying  their  muskets,  ready 
for  whatever  was  to  come.  The  terrified  children 
rushed  into  the  houses,  barring  the  doors  after  them. 

The  Indian  messenger  marched  through  the  village 
until  the  captain  of  the  militia  strode  up  to  him  and 
blocked  his  path.  Then,  with  savage  gallantry,  he 
thrust  into  the  white  man's  hand  a  rattlesnake  skin  in 

—435— 


HERO  TALES 


whicli  was  wrapped  a  bundle  of  arrows,  the  barbarian's 
challenge  to  white  civilization. 

The  grim  captain  turned  and  gave  the  token  to  the 
Governor,  who  had  hastily  joined  the  group  of  excited 
settlers.  While  his  agitated  comrades  eagerly  exam- 
ined the  object,  the  stern  soldier  stood  aloof,  listening 
to  their  excited  questions  and  exclamations.  They  all 
knew  the  import  of  the  bundle  of  arrows. 

"What  shall  we  dof"  asked  one  of  them.  "We 
must  show  him  that  we  are  his  friends." 

"Send  them  a  message  of  peace,"  said  another. 
"Tell  him  we  do  not  tight." 

Suddenly,  the  captain  strode  foi-ward.  Grasping 
the  rattlesnake  skin,  he  impatiently  shook  the  arrows 
from  the  skin.  As  the  last  arrow  fell  to  the  ground, 
he  immediately  filled  the  skin  with  powder  and  shot. 
His  face  was  stern  and  hard-set.  His  eyes  shot  forth 
lightning.    He  thrust  the  skin  at  the  Indian  messenger. 

"Though  war  is  terrible,"  he  thundered,  "I  will 
fight  for  the  right.  Powder  will  smell  sweet  in  the 
cause  of  justice.    Here  is  your  answer  take  it  back." 

The  messenger  turned  and  ran  fleetly  back  along  the 
trail  into  the  forest.  The  settlers  were  astounded  at 
the  daring  of  the  captain  of  the  militia.  Throughout 
the  day  and  night  the  militiamen  stood  guard  at  the 
approaches  to  the  village.  But  the  only  word  that 
came  from  the  forest  was  that  of  good-will,  and  the 
settlement,  that  was  laying  the  foundation  of  a  new 
nation,  was  left  in  peace.  The  chivalry  and  courage 
of  the  captain  had  aroused  the  admiration  and  the  fear 
of  the  savage  tribes. 

It  was  some  months  later  that  word  was  brought  to 
the  doughty  captain  that  the  Indians  were  preparing 
to  attack  the  settlement.  He  hastily  mustered  eight  of 
his  little  company  and  set  out  to  meet  them  before  they 

—436— 


THE  PILGRIM  SOLDIER 


had  time  to  form  a  concerted  attack.  Mile  after  mile, 
they  marched  through  the  forest,  fording  swift  run- 
ning streams,  as  they  approached  the  camp  of  the  In- 
dians. One  of  the  soldiers  climbed  a  tall  tree.  He 
gained  the  top-most  branch  and  for  a  few  moments 
gazed  off  through  the  maze  of  trees. 

' '  The  Indians  are  just  ahead, ' '  he  reported. 

''Quietly,  now,  men,"  said  the  leader,  as  they  cau- 
tiously crept  through  the  underbrush.  The  shining 
steel  helmet  and  breast-plate  of  the  captain  served  as 
a  guide  to  his  followers.  He  halted.  Turning,  he 
beckoned  to  his  brave  men  to  come  up.  There, 
through  the  bushes,  could  be  seen  a  great  tribe  of  In- 
dians, seated  in  council. 

A  wild  shout  rang  through  the  woods.  The  Indians, 
startled,  sprang  to  their  feet.  Great  was  their  amaze- 
ment to  see  a  band  of  steel-clad  figures  dash  from  the 
thickets  into  the  clearing.  A  sheet  of  flame  belched 
from  the  guns  of  the  invaders.  Their  aim  had  been 
true.  Two  Indian  chiefs  fell  to  the  ground,  mortally 
wounded.  The  Indians,  filled  with  terror,  fled  into  the 
forest,  leaving  the  eight  soldiers  victors  of  the  field. 

Several  hours  later,  at  the  head  of  the  path  leading 
into  the  little  village  of  Plymouth,  the  helmets  of  the 
eight  brave  soldiers  flashed  in  the  light.  At  their 
head  strode  their  grim-visaged  captain.  The  colonists 
rushed  from  their  homes  and  cheered  lustily  as  the  men 
marched  through  the  settlement,  unheeding  the  excla- 
mations of  praise,  straight  to  the  house  of  the  Governor 
where  they  were  joyously  greeted. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  brave  captain  of  the  militia,  the 
soldier  of  the  Mayflower,  about  whom  song  and  tradi- 
tion wreathed  many  a  romance — Captain  Myles 
Standish  won  the  first  stand  of  Puritanism  against 
barbarism  in  the  New  World. 

—437— 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    SERGEANT  WHO 
RESCUED   THE   FALLEN   FLAG 


This  is  the  tale  of  a  sergeant 
who  stood  at  his  cannon  when  his  flag  fell  from  its 
staff  and  leaped  into  the  mouth  of  death  to  rescue  it  from 
the  dust.    It  is  a  tale  of  the  heart  of  a  true  soldier,  in  which  the 
ensign  for  which  he  is  fighting   is  more  to  him  than  the  value  of  life. 

WHEN  the  Americans  began  their  struggle 
for  independence,  powerful  old  England 
laughed  and  scoffed. 

''Our  army  will  sweep  them  into  the 
seas,"  she  said.  "There  will  not  be  a  rebel  left.  The 
liberty  idea  is  a  phantom  and  we  will  crush  it  out  in  the 
first  combat." 

But  the  old  monarchy  had  never  before  met  the 
spirit  of  patriotism  in  freemen,  and,  much  to  her 
chagrin,  the  King's  soldiers  were  stubbornly  resisted. 
In  surveying  the  situation,  the  great  British  officers 
decided  that  the  South  was  the  most  penetrable  point 
to  strike  a  decisive  blow. 

"A  few  good  frigates,  three  regiments,  and  some 
artillery  would  do  the  whole  business,"  proclaimed 
the  haughty  English  Governor  of  South  Carolina. 
' '  Charleston  is  the  fountain  head  from  whence  all  vio- 
lence flows ;  stop  that  and  the  rebellion  in  this  part  of 
the  country  will  soon  be  at  end." 

Early  in  the  summer  of  1776  a  large  fleet  of  British 
ships  appeared  off  the  coast  of  South  Carolina.    The 

—438— 


THE  SERGEANT 


patriots  hurriedly  threw  up  fortifications  to  resist  the 
attack  of  the  powerful  fleet.  Stores  and  warehouses 
along  the  water-front  at  Charleston,  were  torn  down 
so  that  the  guns  of  the  town  could  command  the  bay. 
Across  the  harbor  was  Sullivan's  Island;  here  the 
patriots  hastily  built  a  fort  of  soft  palmetto  logs.  It 
was  a  crude  affair ;  a  low,  square  platform,  surrounded 
by  breast-works  of  logs,  offering  but  scanty  protection 
to  the  gunners,  and  garrisoned  by  four  hundred  men, 
many  of  whom  had  no  experience  in  warfare. 

On  the  seventh  of  June,  the  great  fleet  of  English 
vessels  sailed  into  the  harbor  and  anchored.  The  next 
day  the  British  admiral  sent  a  proclamation  to  the  citi- 
zens of  the  town,  warning  them  of  the  horrors  of  war. 
He  demanded  that  they  return  to  their  allegiance  with 
the  English  government.  Pardon  was  offered  to  the 
rebels  if  they  obeyed.  But  the  colonists  determined  to 
fight  in  the  defense  of  their  rights  and  continued  to 
build  their  fortifications. 

It  was  the  twenty-eighth  of  June.  Eight  frigates 
of  the  English  fleet  advanced  on  the  half-completed 
fort  on  Sullivan's  Island.  From  a  tall  flag-staff  on  its 
battlements,  the  first  republican  flag  that  ever  flew  in 
the  South  was  waving  defiance  to  the  great  warships. 

The  British  ships  came  within  range.  A  spurt  of 
flame  leaped  from  a  gun  in  the  island  fort.  Unheeding 
the  shot,  the  British  admiral  maneuvered  his  ships  into 
position  and  anchored.  The  stern-faced  Americans 
sighted  their  guns.  A  terrific  sheet  of  fire  burst  forth. 
The  shells  found  their  marks,  and  great  wooden 
splinters  shot  high  in  the  air. 

Now  the  English  were  ready  and  a  fearful  broad- 
side crashed  from  the  flagship.  Scarcely  had  the 
thundering  roar  of  her  cannons  ceased,  when  the  other 
ships  in  the  fleet  opened  their  batteries,  the   shells 

—439— 


HERO  TALES 


hurtling  across  the  water  and  striking  the  soft,  spongy 
palmetto  logs  with  tremendous  thuds.  But  the  shot 
did  little  damage,  though  the  concussion  shook  the  fort 
to  its  very  foundations. 

The  watching  Americans  suddenly  noticed  that  the 
English  flagship  was  drifting  from  the  line.  The  tide 
seemed  to  be  bearing  the  vessel  close  under  the  guns 
of  the  fort.  The  patriots  trained  their  batteries  upon 
her.  As  the  ship  drew  near,  the  shell  from  the  fort 
raked  the  deck,  from  stem  to  stern.  Of  the  hundred 
men,  but  one  sailor  escaped  the  fire.  The  harbor 
echoed  with  the  terrific  bombardment.  The  English 
ships  staggered  under  the  gruelling.  The  American 
patriots  on  the  island  stood  at  their  posts,  heedless  of 
the  terrible  broadsides  that  shook  the  fort  from  side 
to  side. 

Behind  one  of  the  cannon,  stood  the  tall,  wiry  figure 
of  a  sergeant.  In  his  mouth  was  a  pipe  that  he  calmly 
puffed  as  he  trained  and  fired  his  gun.  Above  his  head 
waved  the  American  flag.  His  great  cannon  roared 
defiantly.  Then,  he  stepped  back  and  looked  around 
him.  His  eyes  turned  to  the  flagstaff.  There,  where 
the  flag  had  been  fluttering  but  a  moment  before,  was 
but  a  few  feet  of  a  shattered  staff.  The  flag  had  been 
shot  away! 

The  sergeant,  still  puffing  his  pipe,  looked  about 
him.  The  flag  had  not  fallen  within  the  fortifications. 
He  peered  over  the  wall  of  logs.  There,  several  feet 
away,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  fire  from  the  British  war- 
ships, lay  the  bullet-riddled  ensign  on  the  ground.  The 
fire  of  the  British  guns  was  turned  upon  it. 

Suddenly,  the  sergeant  was  missed  from  his  post 
of  duty.  His  comrades  called  to  him.  There  was  no 
answer.  On  the  marshy  ground  in  front  of  the  fort,  he 
lay  in  the  midst  of  a  fearful  hail  of  shot.    He  gained  his 

—440— 


THE  SERGEANT 


feet,  and,  croiiching  low  sprang  to  the  flag  and  cauglit 
it  up.  A  huge  ball  struck  beside  him,  ripping  up  the 
earth  in  a  great  furrow.  The  shrieking  shells  burst 
around  him,  as  he  fled  back  to  the  fort.  Over  the 
breastwork  he  clambered  with  the  torn  flag  tightly 
grasped  in  his  hands.  Cheers  burst  from  the  throats 
of  the  gunners  as  on  the  top  of  a  sponge-staff  the  flag 
of  liberty  fluttered  again  over  the  battlements. 

Late  that  night  the  English  fleet  withdrew.  When 
the  sun  rose  above  the  horizon  the  following  morning, 
the  sight  of  the  empty  bay  cheered  the  hearts  of  the 
Americans.  The  English  had  met  with  disastrous 
defeat  and  sailed  away  from  Charleston,  leaving  the 
brave  defenders  without  further  molestation. 

Thus  was  ended  what  was  unquestionably  one  of  the 
first  decisive  battles  of  the  Revolutionary  War.  It 
saved  not  a  post,  but  the  state.  It  gave  security  to 
Georgia,  and  three  years '  peace  to  the  Carolinas ;  it  dis- 
pelled throughout  the  South  the  dread  of  English 
superiority.  Some  years  later  the  British  swept  the 
South,  but  only  in  the  flush  of  a  moment's  victory,  be- 
fore the  day  of  reckoning  that  was  awaiting  them  at 
Yorktown. 

Of  all  the  heroic  days  during  that  great  struggle 
for  independence,  there  is  none  more  inspiring  than 
that  in  the  palmetto  fort  at  old  Charleston,  and  of  all 
the  brave  defenders  of  the  town,  one  of  the  bravest  was 
the  daring  patriot  who  leaped  the  wall  into  the  midst 
of  the  enemy's  bullets  to  retrieve  the  fallen  flag  of 
liberty — Sergeant  Jasper. 


'America's  star  has  illumined  the  pathway. 
That  led  on  to  victory,  nor  daunted  the  brave, 
Its  pure  light  has  flooded  with  glory  forever, 
Our  loved  Land  of  Freedom  from  tyranny  saved.' 

—441— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  PATHFINDER  WHO 
SAVED  A  PROMISED  LAND 


The  tale  of  a  Pathfinder 
who  blazed  the  path  over  which  a  great  people  wer* 
to  pass  to  a  new  Land  of  Pronnise,  who,  when  his  country- 
nnen  were  in  danger,  drove  the  enemy  from  their  nnldst  and  fought 
through  battles  and   political  strifes  with  the  same  undaunted  courage. 

THE  country  beyond  the  Mississippi  Eiver,  in 
the  days  of  this  tale,  was  a  vast  region  of 
forest  and  prairie  that  was  unknown,  except 
as  some  daring  trapper  or  adventurer  pene- 
trated its  mysteries  to  match  prowess  with  its  wild 
animals,  the  bear  and  the  lynx. 

The  great  East,  which  but  a  few  years  before,  had 
been  but  a  wild  waste,  was  now  conquered  by  towering 
cities  and  great  multitudes,  who,  coming  from  the 
shores  of  the  Atlantic,  were  crowding  civilization  into 
the  interior  until  now  it  was  on  the  borderline  of  the 
foothills  of  the  Eockies. 

Tales  of  the  fabulous  wealth  of  this  mountain  coun- 
try were  brought  back  to  the  East.  Immigrant  trains 
began  to  move  into  the  untracked  wilderness.  The 
call  of  the  wilds  rang  along  the  Atlantic  shores  and 
thousands  turned  toward  the  promised  land.  So  loud 
became  its  appeal,  that  the  government  at  Washington 
was  called  upon  to  blaze  a  path  for  the  van  of  civiliza- 
tion to  follow. 

It  was  in  the  year  1842.    A  tall,  thin  man,  his  face 
—442— 


THE  PATHFINDER 


hardened  by  the  weather,  left  the  national  capital  on 
the  trip  for  his  government.  Some  days  later  he 
entered  the  city  of  St.  Louis,  which  was  then  the  out- 
post of  civilization.  It  was  the  rendezvous  of  the 
hunters  and  trappers  and  adventurers  of  the  day. 
Here  they  came  with  the  trophies  of  the  hunt,  and  told 
their  marvelous  tales  of  the  Great  West.  The  gov- 
ernment explorer  soon  gathered  about  him  some  of  the 
most  daring  frontiersmen  of  the  times. 

Early  one  summer  day,  the  group  of  daring  men 
bade  farewell  to  civilization  and  marched  into  the 
mysterious  country.  Day  after  day,  they  toiled  along, 
camping  at  night  alongside  mountain  streams.  Listen- 
ing to  the  weird  night-sounds  of  the  wild  region ;  labor- 
ing through  the  arid  sands,  toiling  over  ranges  of 
mountains,  weaving  their  way  through  narrow,  tortu- 
ous passes.  Until  one  day  they  stood  on  a  mountain 
summit  and  before  them  lay  a  valley  of  rich  promise, 
fertile  and  green,  fed  by  rivers  rushing  from  surround- 
ing hills.  There,  beyond  the  hills  and  valleys,  was 
seen  the  flashing,  heaving  billows  of  the  Pacific  ocean. 
They  had  reached  the  western  boundary  of  the  conti- 
nent. Up  and  down  the  coast  they  ranged,  making 
notes  of  the  rich  country,  and  compiling  maps  and 
records,  that,  when  they  brought  them  back  to  Wash- 
ington, after  months  of  weary  travel  and  suffering, 
were  to  result  in  the  acquisition  of  this  great  country 
to  the  United  States. 

The  following  year  found  the  intrepid  leader  and 
his  band  of  loyal  followers  again  plodding  through  the 
forests  and  deserts.  Over  the  great  Rocky  Mountains 
and  on  to  California,  they  passed,  surveying  a  route 
for  the  great  immigration  of  the  American  people  that 
was  to  follow  in  a  few  years.  The  pioneer  settlers  of 
lower  California  were  being  driven  from  their  homes 

—443— 


HERO  TALES 


by  the  Mexican  soldiers.  The  Mexican  Republic  real- 
ized the  richness  of  the  state  and  determined  to  drive 
the  American  settlers  from  the  country  and  claim  the 
territory  as  her  own.  The  news  was  brought  to  the 
explorer. 

'*I  want  to  know,"  he  remarked,  "We  may  have 
something  to  say  about  that." 

Without  waiting  for  orders  from  Washington  he 
hastened  to  the  aid  of  the  settlers.  As  he  entered  the 
valley  a  scene  of  desolation  lay  before  him.  Homes 
were  in  flames ;  villages  in  desolation,  and  the  inhabi- 
tants fleeing  in  terror  before  the  Mexican  soldiers. 

* '  This  must  stop, ' '  exclaimed  the  explorer.  ' '  Amer- 
icans must  be  protected  wherever  they  are." 

Gathering  a  small  army  of  settlers  about  him,  he 
marched  out  to  meet  the  Mexicans  in  battle.  The  in- 
trepid band  of  pioneers  withstood  the  onslaught  and 
held  their  ground.  Conflict  after  conflict  followed,  in 
which  the  brave  explorer  courageously  led  his  men  to 
victory  against  the  powerful  Mexican  army.  He  had 
assumed  the  burden  of  the  American  pioneers,  not 
knowing  that  the  United  States  had  declared  war 
against  Mexico.  And  when  General  Kearney  was  on 
his  way  to  defend  the  state,  the  surveyor  had  driven 
the  Mexicans  out  of  California  and  held  the  valuable 
region  for  the  United  States. 

The  freedom  of  the  wilderness  was  in  the  heart  of 
this  dauntless  pathfinder.  So  strong  had  it  become, 
that  it  knew  no  discipline,  and  in  the  months  and  years 
that  followed,  his  nature  fought  against  subordination 
and  proclaimed  its  independence  against  all  superior 
mandates,  involving  him  in  difficulties  with  his  govern- 
ment and  the  army. 

Many  times  he  crossed  the  vast  wilderness,  and 
conquered   its    hardships,   fighting   his    way   through 

—444— 


THE  PATHFINDER 


almost  impassable  obstacles,  to  blaze  a  path  for  tbe 
great  army  of  immigrants  who  were  to  people  the  coast 
of  the  Pacific  and  build  great  cities  of  American  civil- 
ization on  its  shores. 

In  1848,  this  explorer  organized  an  expedition  at 
his  own  expense  and  started  on  his  third  trip  across  the 
thousands  of  miles  of  mountains  and  forests,  and 
through  a  fearful  winter.  The  cold  winds  of  the  west- 
ern mountains  cruelly  lashed  them  as  they  ploughed 
their  way  through  the  snow,  over  the  Rockies.  The 
following  spring  found  the  little  band  staggering  down 
the  slopes  of  the  mountains  around  the  city  of  Sacra- 
mento, and  here  they  stayed,  the  leader  purchasing  an 
estate  and  settling  down  after  the  long  years  of  hard- 
ships in  opening  the  great  state  of  California  to  the 
American  people.  His  fame  had  spread  over  the  land 
and  he  was  popularly  known  as  the  ''Pathfinder." 
The  new  state  of  California  sent  him  to  Washington 
as  their  Congressman,  where  he  fought  his  political 
battles  with  the  same  courage  that  he  fought  the  wil- 
derness. 

Some  years  later  he  was  elected  governor  of  Ari- 
zona Territory.  At  seventy-three  years  of  age,  Con- 
gress placed  the  old  pathfinder  on  the  retired  list  of  the 
anny  as  major-general. 

His  last  days  were  passed  in  retirement  from  the 
turmoils  that  had  raged  about  his  long  life,  and  the 
man  who  had  s  erved  his  country  according  to  his  sense 
of  duty,  and  who  had  thrown  open  to  civilization  the 
great  trails  that  led  to  the  Eldorado— the  land  of  gold 
—will  ever  be  remembered  as  an  heroic  figure  in  Amer- 
ican history— General  John  C.  Fremont. 


—445— 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  PLANTER 
WHO  BECAME  FATHER  OF  HIS  COUNTRY 


This  is  the  tale  of  the  first  great  American 
and  the  founding  of  the  greatest  nation  in  the  annals  of 
nnankind.     It  is  the  tale  of  a  planter  who  led   his  people  to 
triumph  and  was  lifted   by  them  to  the  highest  honor  within  theiri 
power— the  presidency  of  the  republic  that  is  destined  to  lead  civilization. 

QEEAT  was  the  joy  in  the  home  of  a  wealthy- 
planter,  down  in  Westmoreland  County,  in 
old  Virginia,  when  a  son  was  born  to  him  on 
the  twenty-second  day  of  February,  in  1732. 
The  mother  was  a  woman  of  strong  character  and  deep 
piety.  The  father  died  when  the  boy  was  ten  years  of 
age.  An  elder  son  inherited  the  magnificent  old 
Southern  plantation,  but  he  died  early  in  life,  and,  at 
the  age  of  twenty,  the  hero  of  this  tale  became  the  heir 
of  the  large  property. 

These  were  the  days  of  the  beginnings  of  real  estate 
operations  in  America.  Great  tracts  of  land  were  being 
surveyed  along  the  Ohio.  Boundaries  and  titles  were 
founding  the  wealth  of  the  first  families  of  the  New 
World.  The  young  land-owner,  who  had  chosen  the 
calling  of  a  surveyor,  tracked  through  the  pathless 
forests  to  the  frontier  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  in  the  pur- 
suit of  his  business.  Though  he  was  American-born, 
his  family  were  loyal  colonists  of  the  mother-country, 
and  the  youth,  having  received  the  commission  of  a 
major,  fought  under  the  British  flag  against  the  French 

—446— 


THE  PLANTER 


and  Indians.  The  King's  soldiers  were  so  much  im- 
pressed with  the  courage  and  ability  of  this  dignified 
youth  that  he  was  soon  placed  in  command  of  a  division 
of  the  British  army. 

Along  the  Spanish  main,  the  British  empire  was  in 
conflict  with  the  power  of  ancient  Spain.  The  spirit  of 
chivalry  and  knighthood  fired  the  heart  of  the  youth, 
and  he  volunteered  his  services  to  the  King's  navy, 
which  was  about  to  sail  for  an  attack  upon  the  strongly 
fortified  city  of  Cartagena.  He  was  assigned  to  a 
fighting  ship,  and  was  about  to  bid  farewell  to  the 
colonies,  when  his  mother's  heart  was  overcome  with 
grief  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  her  boy,  and  she 
pleaded  with  him  to  remain  at  home. 

It  was  through  his  mother's  appeal  that  he  remained 
an  American  colonist.  If  she  had  not  prevailed,  he 
would  have  soon  been  sailing  the  seas  with  the  British 
navy,  his  character  and  courage  would  have  won  him 
promotion,  and  would  undoubtedly  have  made  him  a 
hero  of  English,  rather  than  of  American  history. 

The  youth  set  aside  his  ambition,  in  order  to  please 
his  mother,  and  settled  on  the  family  estate  in  Virginia, 
where  he  married,  and  for  the  next  twenty  years  led 
the  life  of  a  Southern  planter  in  comfortable  circum- 
stances. His  neighbors  came  to  him  for  advice.  At 
his  fireside  they  discussed  the  politics  of  the  colonies, 
severely  condemning  the  policy  of  the  mother-country. 

"Taxation  without  representation  is  tyranny,"  they 
declared. 

The  planter  listened  to  their  appeals,  and  agreed 
with  them  that  the  mother-country  should  remedy  the 
injustice  which  was  being  done  in  the  colonies ;  but  he 
counseled  them  to  temper  their  demands  with  courtesy. 

The  breach  between  the  home  government  and  the 
colonies  widened.    The  mother-country  became  arro- 

-447— 


HERO  TALES 


gant  in  her  demands,  and  the  colonists  insolent  in  their 
responses.  Effigies  of  the  King  were  hanged  in  the 
public  streets.    Mobs  called  for  violence. 

''Down  with  the  King!"  they  cried.  ''Give  us 
liberty. ' ' 

In  the  Continental  Congress,  the  debates,  which 
were  at  first  merely  argumentative,  were  now  defiant. 
The  voice  of  revolution  rang  through  the  halls.  On  the 
floor  of  Congress  stood  the  stately  Virginia  planter, 
now  forty-two  years  of  age,  his  features  noble  and  his 
bearing  impressive.  His  clear  voice  appealed  for  tem- 
perate speech.  He  protested  against  rash  methods  and 
called  upon  his  colleagues  to  employ  reason  rather  than 
violence. 

The  people  were  aroused,  and  when  once  they  unite 
in  a  common  cause  they  will  have  their  way.  So  it  was 
with  the  deeply  wronged  and  profoundly  indignant 
colonists.  They  determined  to  give  their  lives  rather 
than  longer  submit  to  tyranny. 

' '  They  are  fighting  at  Lexington.  The  first  martyr 
has  fallen  I ' ' 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire.  The  pent-up  wrath 
of  the  American  people  burst  forth  into  flames  of  war. 
Farmers  left  the  plough,  artisans  their  benches, 
merchants  their  stores,  and  rushed  to  arms. 

' '  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death ! ' '  These  were 
the  words  that  were  on  the  lips  of  the  people. 

"The  American  colonists  are  determined  to  resist 
the  power  of  Great  Britain!"  The  words  brought  a 
sneer  to  the  court  of  England.  ' '  They  want  something 
that  they  call  liberty.  They  talk  of  the  independence. ' ' 
The  "fool-hardiness"  of  it  all  made  the  ancient 
monarchies  of  Europe  smile. 

"Ticonderoga  is  taken.  Crown  Point  has  fallen. 
They  are  fighting  at  Bunker  Hill!" 

—448— 


THE  PLANTER 


''The  insurrection  will  be  promptly  suppressed," 
remarked  old  Europe,  placidly.    "It  is  not  serious." 

A  few  weeks  later,  the  streets  of  Cambridge,  in 
Massachusetts,  were  thronged  with  men  from  every 
walk  of  life,  bearing  muskets  on  their  shoulders,  and 
marching  to  the  beat  of  the  drum.  Among  them  were 
hundreds  who  had  fought  for  old  England  in  the  French 
and  Indian  wars,  but  who  were  now  in  revolt  against 
the  injustice  of  their  government. 

Under  a  spreading  elm  tree,  stood  a  tall,  dignified 
man,  clad  in  a  blue  broadcloth  coat,  buff  small  clothes, 
silk  stockings  and  cocked  hat — the  dress  of  the  period. 
Astride  a  great  war-horse,  he  rode  along  the  line  of 
Americans.  As  he  drew  his  sword,  a  shout  echoed 
through  the  streets  of  the  village.  Congress  had  ap- 
pointed him  commander-in-chief  of  the  Colonial  forces, 
and  he  had  bowed  to  their  will. 

The  western  world  was  now  in  the  throes  of  revolu- 
tion. The  destiny  of  a  great  people  was  balancing  in 
the  scales  of  war.  Little  did  they  know  that  every 
volley  that  belched  forth  from  their  guns  was  to  echo 
down  through  the  centuries  as  long  as  man  shall  live 
on  the  earth;  that  each  falling  martyr  unloosed  the 
chains  from  a  million  yet  unborn ;  that  every  bayonet- 
charge  pierced  the  traditions  of  the  generations  and 
let  in  the  light  of  a  new  age  of  liberty  and  freedom, 
such  as  the  people  of  the  earth  had  not  yet  known. 

"Montreal  has  surrendered.  They  have  besieged 
Quebec,  the  citadel  of  the  British  power.  Boston  is 
evacuated.    Fort  Moultrie  is  attacked." 

The  news  stirred  the  pulse  of  the  world. 

"The  Americans  have  declared  themselves  free. 
They  have  cut  the  last  bond  that  ties  them  to  monarchy. 
They  have  issued  to  the  world  a  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence.   Their  words  burn  with  a  new  fire  that  seems 

—449— 


HERO  TALES 


to  penetrate  the  darkness  of  the  past  and  cast  its  rays 
upon  the  world's  future." 

"We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident,"  declared 
the  document, — "that  all  men  are  created  free  and 
equal;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  creator  with 
certain  inalienable  rights;  that  among  these  are  life, 
liberty  and  pursuit  of  happiness.  That,  to  secure  these 
rights,  governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving 
their  just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed; 
that  whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes  de- 
structive of  these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to 
alter  or  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a  new  government, 
laying  its  foundation  on  such  principles,  and  organizing 
its  powers  in  such  form,  as  to  them  shall  seem  most 
likely  to  effect  their  safety  and  happiness.  Prudence, 
indeed,  will  dictate  that  governments  long  established 
should  not  be  changed  for  light  and  transient  causes ; 
and,  accordingly,  all  experience  hath  shown  that  man- 
kind are  more  disposed  to  suffer,  while  evils  are  suffer- 
able,  than  to  right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms 
to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  when  a  long  train 
of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pursuing  invariably  the 
same  object,  evinces  a  design  to  reduce  them  under  ab- 
solute despotism,  it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty,  to 
throw  off  such  government,  and  to  provide  new  guards 
for  their  future  security." 

The  ancient  civilization,  in  which  the  power  of 
government  had  been  held  by  kings  and  aristocracies 
throughout  the  generations,  was  shaken  through  and 
through  by  this  new  doctrine. 

The  proclamation  inspired  the  revolutionists  with 
almost  superhuman  endurance  and  courage.  Now  they 
are  fighting  on  Long  Island;  now  at  White  Plains. 
Fort  Washington  is  taken.  Now  the  Americans  are  in 
retreat  through  New  Jersev.    At  Trenton  and  Prince- 

—450— 


THE  PLANTER 


ton  they  are  fighting  desperately.  Now  they  are  at 
Bennington;  now  at  Brandywine.  Philadelphia  sur- 
renders to  the  British.  The  Americans  make  a  brave 
stand  at  Germantown.  Saratoga  has  fallen!  One  of 
the  decisive  battles  of  the  world  has  been  fought, — and 
the  great  Burgoyne  surrenders. 

Through  the  long  months  of  struggle  for  inde- 
pendence, the  dominating  spirit  that  kept  the  soldiers 
from  wavering  was  that  of  the  Virginia  planter,  who 
shared  the  hardships  of  his  half-clad  and  hungry  men. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1777-78.  A  division  of  the 
American  army,  commanded  by  the  Virginian,  was  en- 
camped for  the  winter  at  Valley  Forge.  The  British, 
in  the  city  of  Philadelphia,  were  quartered  in  warm 
houses,  comfortably  clad  and  enjoying  their  relief  from 
the  horrors  of  war.  The  little  American  army  of  about 
seven  thousand  men,  worn,  ragged  and  hungry,  en- 
camped in  the  snow-covered  valley,  and  shivered  in  the 
searching  winds  which  swept  through  their  forest  huts. 
So  reduced  were  they,  that  a  suit  of  clothing  often 
served  two  soldiers — one  wearing  it  while  the  other 
remained  in  his  hovel.  Many  were  without  shoes ;  their 
bare,  bleeding  feet  pressed  the  snow  and  frozen  ground. 
Food  was  sometimes  lacking  for  days.  The  weakened 
soldiers  sickened  and  died  by  scores,  but  in  spite  of  all 
these  privations,  the  brave  patriots  remained  faithful 
to  their  cause,  inspired  by  the  conduct  and  courage  of 
their  commander,  the  Virginian. 

One  day,  a  man  passing  through  the  valley  heard  a 
voice  raised  in  prayer.  Creeping  in  its  direction,  he 
discovered,  through  the  foliage,  the  general  on  his 
knees,  his  cheeks  wet  with  tears,  imploring  the  Almighty 
for  succor.  Awed  by  the  sight,  he  softly  stole  away 
and  told  his  wife  of  the  scene. 

''If  there  is  anyone  to  whom  the  Lord  will  listen," 
-451— 


HERO  TALES 


he  said,  '  4t  is  the  brave  commander,  and  under  such  a 
man  our  independence  is  certain." 

In  the  following  spring,  the  gloom  of  the  Americans 
was  dispelled  by  the  promise  of  assistance  from  France. 
The  exhausted  American  army,  re-enforced  by  the 
French,  took  up  with  fresh  courage  the  struggle  for 
liberty. 

Great  Britain,  aroused  by  the  fate  that  was  menac- 
ing her,  unloosed  all  her  force  upon  those  who  had 
declared  this  new  doctrine  of  liberty.  The  armies  stood 
arrayed  against  each  other  at  Monmouth.  The  news 
of  a  massacre  came  from  AVyoming.  The  British  cap- 
tured Savannah.  Stony  Point  fell  to  the  Americans. 
Charleston  surrendered  to  the  King's  army.  Now  they 
are  fighting  at  Camden ;  now  at  King's  Mountain.  Eich- 
mond  is  burning.  The  armies  are  face  to  face  at  Cow- 
pens,  at  Guilford  Court-House,  at  Eutaw  Springs. 

Six  years  of  fearful  suffering  and  warfare  had  re- 
duced the  American  army  to  desperation. 

"Liberty  or  death!"  The  inspiring  words  now 
burned  more  fiercely  in  their  breasts  than  ever  before. 

It  was  the  autumn  of  1781.  The  British  were  be- 
sieged in  Yorktown.  Again  and  again,  the  King's  sol- 
diers struggled  to  raise  the  siege  only  to  be  driven 
back  into  the  city.  The  lines  of  the  American  patriots, 
and  their  French  allies,  drew  closer  and  closer.  Across 
the  plains  before  the  city  they  marched,  unheeding  the 
fearful  fire  of  the  British  cannon,  and  making  no  return 
until  they  were  clearly  within  rifle-range.  Suddenly,  a 
flashing  sheet  of  flame  and  shot  bursts  from  the  ranks 
of  the  advancing  soldiers.  Cheers  fill  the  air.  The 
King's  men  yield  two  of  their  strongest  fortifications. 
The  American  spirit  of  independence  is  now  aflame. 
Its  scorching  fires  drive  everything  before  them.  The 
British  seem  to  waver;  thev  stagger  back.    A  great 

—452— 


THE  PLANTER 


shout  breaks  forth  again  from  thousands  of  throats. 
Men  seem  in  delirium.  Again  and  again,  the  hills  ring 
with  cheers  that  are  still  passing  down  through  the 
generations.  Cornwallis  has  surrendered  I  Monarchial 
government  is  driven  forever  from  the  federation  of 
American  colonies,  now  colonies  no  longer.  The  British 
ensign  falls  to  the  ground.  The  new  banner  of  liberty 
floats  high  in  the  skies. 

It  was  the  nineteenth  day  of  October,  in  1781.  Be- 
fore the  wrecked  walls  of  Yorktown,  the  American 
army  stood  in  a  line  that  extended  for  over  a  mile. 
Fronting  the  Americans,  was  a  line  of  the  French. 
Between  the  two  armies,  towered  the  figures  of  the  tall, 
dignified  Virginian  planter,  and  of  the  French  com- 
mander. To  slow  music,  the  humbled  British  army 
marched,  with  shouldered  arms  and  furled  colors.  A 
British  officer  advanced  toward  the  American  com- 
mander. Unsheathing  his  sword,  he  offered  it  to  the 
Virginian,  who,  with  fine  delicacy  of  feeling,  directed 
that  it  be  given  to  a  fellow  officer, — and  the  war  of  the 
Revolution  was  over. 

A  new  nation  was  born.  A  great  republic,  which 
was  to  instill  the  love  of  liberty  into  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  men  throughout  the  world,  was  founded ;  and 
on  the  balcony  of  Federal  Hall  in  New  York  City,  the 
first  capital  of  the  new  nation,  the  Virginian  planter 
took  the  oath  as  the  first  President  of  the  United  States 
of  America. 

It  was  some  years  later,  in  1799,  the  fourteenth  day 
of  December.  The  great  American  lay  ill.  A  short 
time  before,  he  had  contracted  a  cold,  while  riding  in 
a  snow-storm.  Despite  the  doctor's  care,  he  rapidly 
grew  worse.  It  was  late  in  the  day.  The  end  was 
near.  Around  his  bedside  gathered  his  sorrowful 
friends.    His  hand  crept  feebly  across  the  bed-covers 

—453— 


HERO  TALES 


and  grasped  his  other  hand.    He  felt  his  pulse,  and  his 
countenance  changed. 

"I  die  hard,"  he  whispered,  "but  I  am  not  afraid 
to  go.  It  is  well."  The  great  Virginian  was  dead.  The 
planter  who  had  led  his  fellow-men  to  glorious  triumph 
was  gone.  Two  countries  paid  tribute  to  his  memory. 
The  American  people  bowed  their  heads  in  grief,  and 
at  his  bier  they  piled  their  tokens  of  love  and  respect 
upon  the  remains  of  the  "Father  of  his  Country,"  the 
great  American  who  was,  and  ever  shall  be,  "first  in 
war,  first  in  peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men,"— General  George  Washington. 


"My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty. 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died. 
Laud  of  the  Pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

"My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 
Like  that  above. 

"Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake. 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
liCt  rocks  their  silence  break,— 

The  sound  prolong. 

"Our  father's  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty. 

To  thee  we  sing; 
liong  may  our  land  be  bright 
With   freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might. 

Great  God,  our  King."    ^^  't^ 


—454— 


(K^